Wolf Moon
by Reincarnated Poet
Summary: The Sarmatians were born of Scythians and Amazons, both proud and fierce races. Rome has looked over the mother race, condemning the female as the weaker sex and thus, not worth their reaping. A daughter of her mother's people, a wolf will defend what is hers more fiercely than the Romans have ever seen. Hera help those in her way, be they Roman or Saxon.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: The first three chapters are pre-movie. After that you're getting into concurrent with the film and after. Please note that names I've used in here are as close to what I can find that would have been names used by the races at the time. Additionally, the characters I'm writing aren't always supposed to be likable. I've tried to make them as realistic as possible.

**Warning: There are strong themes in this chapter.** Mentions of rape and infanticide among them. I attempted to keep this vague, but I'm trying to keep this piece as realistic as possible, both the darkness and the light.

Wolf Moon

Chapter One - A She Wolf Born

Thunder rolled off of the Black Sea as it always did. Wind rocked the water up and crashed it down to the land as lightening struck the sky, sending an eerie glow about the small village beside the sea.

The world was agony. Inside a thatched hut, not fifty yards from where the waters churned, a girl was at war. Sixteen and still fairly small, she writhed on a birthing bed, teeth set firmly into her bottom lip to keep herself from crying out.

"Push girl," a midwife said from between her knees, as her eyes rolled back into her head as another wave of pain ripped through her. A fire had been lit, casting the thatch hut into a dull orange glow. One door stood opposite her, and she glared at it with as much vitriol as she could muster.

Her husband was outside that door, she knew, waiting for the cries of a child that she didn't want to force from between her legs, a child he had planted there while holding her down and covering her mouth to keep her from snarling at him.

"Push!" The midwife ordered, smacking her inner thigh hard, drawing her attention. "Ya don't push, girl, and the babe's going ta die inside ya." The girl smiled through the pain, teeth clenched hard together as she tried to keep her muscles from doing just as the woman demanded.

"I'll kill it," she hissed out between the crashing waves of pain, trying to draw her legs together and keep the damnable creature inside of her until it suffocated. "I'll kill it and let it rot inside me. It will stink and fester and in the end, when it kills me, he'll have the satisfaction of his dead son." She spat, biting viciously into her lip again when the pain came more fiercely.

She was a small woman still, not wide enough to bare a child, but Dnaestre hadn't considered that when he claimed her as spoils of a war her people lost and laid himself into her. The cursed thing in her belly was ripping her apart as it tried to leave her body.

"You'll kill it," the midwife said, voice harsh. She was of the girl's people, taken at the same time she had been but was far too old to be taken to bed. The woman was Tereis, a woman well known for her might on the battle field until her back had bent with age. "Anaxilea, you will kill the thing growing in you, and you will kill yourself. If this is your path, do it with honor." She demanded, standing from between the girl's knees with a growl and drawing a dagger from her waist.

"He will have no son from me," Anaxilea boasted, face contorting in pain as the child fought for freedom.

"Then give him a daughter," Tereis said, as firm as ever. "Push girl, see another Amazon born to the people, and prove to him that he's taken nothing from you." The dark haired girl glared up at the midwife for a long moment, the pain lining her face and drawing her lips up into a near snarl. Her dark eyes stared at the woman until finally, she nodded, and with all the strength left in her, she pushed.

No cry split the air as something slick forced its way from Anaxilea as she gave one last great push, collapsing as Tereis held up her child. The infant didn't cry out or scream, the only sign it still lived was the faint kicking in its legs and the odd way it clawed at its own neck. "The birthing cord," Tereis murmured, cutting the thing away with her dagger and urging the child to breath as its movements slowed and its face went blue.

"I've killed her," Anaxilea murmured as the pain and fatigue caught her up. "I killed that which he put in me." Tereis looked down sharply at the girl, but her eyes had slipped shut and her breathing had fallen into a labored rhythm.

"Breath, girl," Tereis urged, eyeing the redness around the child's neck and mouth where the umbilical cord had gotten caught, cutting off the movement of blood and air. The little thing had it up in it's mouth, toothless gums gnawing at it as if it could chew through the thing. "Born of storm and a warrior in the womb, you'll breath now, Hera take you!" Tereis yelled at the child, giving her a harsh shake and a smack on the back.

The child gurgled, and just as Tereis though she'd struck the child too hard, she drew breath and let a low growl. The midwife sat back on her old, aching haunches, and sighed. Anaxilea was a proud girl, born to be a queen of their people and forced into slavery. There would be a time though, Tereis was certain, there would be a time when the young queenly lioness of the Amazon people looked down at her daughter and saw her as more than the man that raped her.

AN: There are some darker themes in this piece, as was warned about above. I tried to keep them nondescript as possible, but these things happened and often in the warring worlds.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I do not own King Arthur or the rendering done by the film in 2004, which this piece is based upon.

Chapter Two: Of Oaths of Blood and Oaths in Blood

Anaxilea nursed her daughter because Dnaestre had pushed the thing away from him as soon as he'd realized she'd stolen from him a son. There was a sickly sense in her at that, something that relished in his disapproval.

So she let the half-Scythian suckle at her breast, hissing with pain when the girl gummed her fiercely. The infant gave a little grunt as it was pulled away and held at arm's length more violently than was necessary for the small hurt.

"You'll kill her yet, shakin' her like that," Tereis chided, taking the baby away to offer it goat's milk, something that the babe took more often than her mother's. Of course, the rough treatment Anaxilea had given her since her birth was more than enough excuse.

"She has to learn," Anaxilea defended. "I've only the one breast, Tereis. You and your sisters held me down when I was only a week older than that thing in your arms, and held a red-hot blade against the other." The girl was being petulant, Tereis knew. She'd always been proud that she had the shape of her mother's people until she realized the hardship that came with motherhood.

"You have growing to do, yet," Tereis countered. "If your mother shook you every time you bit at her, you'd have died before you were one of our people."

"If my mother had stood beside her people instead of turning her own blade on herself when she'd lost, maybe I would find the will to care," Anaxilea murmured, covering herself and rising from the thatch mattress.

The girl had been hiding in the birthing hut for the better part of a week since her daughter's birth, not willing to return to Dnaestre's shadow. The tall Scythian hadn't come looking for her either, for which she would silently be grateful.

"Some choose death over servitude," Tereis answered. There were no pretty words that would erase what their queen had done. She had seen their defeat and had taken the coward's way. There was little that could be said in defense except: "Then again, some choose to kill babies instead of themselves."

"I didn't kill the-"

"You deny that if the squalling thing you pushed from your body had been a boy, you'd have laid it to the knife?" Tereis asked, her old face lined heavily with a scowl. Anaxilea didn't argue, and instead, collapsed back to the mattress and held her hands out for the infant.

"Give it here, then, if she's to learn, it better be quickly," Anaxilea said, hands grabbing too roughly when the child was given back to her.

"You'll have to name her eventually," Tereis advised. "Before she is married herself and still being called it."

"I've given her a name," the younger girl said, voice thick with annoyance. "Is it my fault you choose to ignore it?"

"You can't call the girl Atanea," Tereis said, exasperated at the return in conversation. It had been something they'd argued about time and time again.

"Why? Dnaestre was pleased as much with it as any other name. He gave it to his people when they asked."

"I will not call a week old infant traitor," Tereis said firmly. "If you wish Dnaestre to not recognize the child as his own people, let it be Atanea, but I will not hear you giving an exile's name to a babe." The old woman was fiercely demanding, and Anaxilea had to admit that she was damned convincing when she was so threatening.

"Ow," she hissed, down at the child, who gummed her nipple with force. "Gods, she bites like a wolf." Tereis smiled at that.

"A wolf born in the storm," Tereis said with a nod. "Strong."

"Not so much," Anaxilea countered, though despite her want to deny it, she knew the older woman was right. She should be pleased that the girl fought so fiercely; it was a sign that their people would have been thankful for.

"Wolves kill each other over nothing," Anaxilea said. "Perhaps she is a wolf."

"Wolves also kill Scythians who have lost their way," Tereis countered, knowing the imagery would please the girl. The old woman crouched low over a slow boiling heavy pot in the corner. She signed as she looked over at the girl-and she was a girl, the old woman realized-who occasionally winced and gave the infant a firm shake.

"What name would you give her?" Anaxilea asked after a long silence. Tereis's brown eyes studied both girls a long while. Anaxilea was looking down at the girl for the first time with soft eyes. The child had fallen asleep with her head against her mother's breast.

"Lykopis," Tereis breathed, the name pulling fiercely at her heart.

"I don't recognize that name," Anaxilea said after a moment. "No one in the tribe had that name."

"My mother did," Tereis acknowledged quietly. No one had had the name of the She-Wolf since her mother's passing. None would again, unless it was this child, Tereis knew.

"And did your mother kill Scythians?" Anaxilea asked.

"From the day she was given a blade until the day she died protecting me," Tereis confirmed, the ache of memories heavy on her. Anaxilea nodded, and they sat in silence for a long while, until the smell of the fish boiling in the pot was thick in the air.

"To the people," Anaxilea said as they sat with their hollowed stone bowls. "To the people she will be Lykopis. Let her father's people call her Atanea."

Tereis watched the young woman with knowing eyes for a long while before nodding. The wolf of her people. The opposition of the Scythians. Somehow, Tereis knew, that would prove far more true than anything else she had ever heard.

-RP: Wolf Moon-

Death was something that the Scythians did not spend time relishing. Their enemies died just as easily as their friends, so when nearly their entire army was laid waste by the Romans despite their horses and their fierceness, no one mourned long over the dead.

None except those who knew the weight of their freedom. Fifteen years from all sons. Fifteen years and Rome would return to them men that were no longer Scythian, men that had forgotten their own people, if they returned at all.

Anaxilea nearly reveled in the irony of it. Her future had been stolen away, and not the future of the thing Dnaestre wanted most was gone. Her belly would swell soon, she knew. Dnaestre had returned from their battles with a limp and a scar that split his face, but he had returned virile.

Anaxilea asked Artemis for a girl-child every night and every morning. She had come a long way in the eleven years since the birth of her daughter, and even Tereis had to admit that she was taking this child with more grace than the first.

"It will be soon, mother?" Lykopis's voice startled her from her study of the funerary pyres that had burned to nothing months ago. The men had left them, as a symbol of their dead comrades and the promise to Rome. She looked down to her daughter, with her dark hair and eyes. Often times, looking at the girl was like looking into a calm pond.

"Soon enough," she said with a sigh. Time had tempered the sixteen year old girl into a woman, one that was proud but far calmer. The girl at her side would be much the same way; Anaxilea had seen to that each night. Without her husband there, she was free to raise her daughter in any way she wished, and she had taken that freedom as far as she could stretch it. He had been gone for six of their daughter's years, but it was not enough in either of their eyes.

"How does it fit in there?" Lykopis asked, this time her voice was colored with confusion. It took Anaxilea a few long moments to realize that her daughter's eyes were fixed firmly on her abdomen. The woman threw her dark head of hair back and laughed to the Gods above. She had just told the girl, not even minutes before, how she would be sent a sibling.

"It is very small, at first," Anaxilea said in agreement. "But it grows. You have to defend her when she is small."

"Yes," Lykopis breathed, tearing her eyes away from the front of her mother's tunic. The girl turned then, ran a few paces towards the base of one of the pyres and picked up an old, battle blunted ax head that someone had laid atop the pyres. She ran back with it, holding it out for Anaxilea to see. Fiercely, she brought her little hand down on the chipped blade end, face scrunched up in a grim line until she dropped the weapon.

Anaxilea watched as her daughter upturned her hand, now lined with blood. "I swear," she said firmly, though her voice wavered from the pain.

"I believe you," Anaxilea replied, bending to draw the girl toward her and wrap her hand with a bit of cloth. "Blood is a powerful thing to swear by," Anaxilea told her daughter, but she knew the girl already had heard time and time again.

"It binds a promise," she said with a nod and a grimace as the bandage was pulled tight.

"It does bind a promise," Anaxilea agreed, straightening up and glaring up at the heavens. How many nights had she bound promises in blood with her Gods? How many times had her Gods abandoned those promises?

They broke another promise months later, as Anaxilea lay panting on the thatch birthing mattress again. Lykopis curled in the corner, eyes wide as Tereis - old Tereis who could only half see and who needed carried to the birthing hut - guided her mother through what they called the coming of her sister.

A few other women, women that Lykopis hated because of their whispered words about her mother's feverish skin or her pallor, stood around, helping when Tereis needed something she couldn't reach or see.

"She birthed the girl without screaming," one woman whispered. "But listen to her pant. Dnaestre was a big child, or so his mother claimed."

"I've heard the old ones talk about infants too large," another whispered back. Lykopis hated those women for their words. Fiercely, she bit into her bottom lip, trying to keep her tongue in check. Tereis motioned for something else, which was handed to her in silence.

Another woman across the hut muttered something that sparked the old woman's ire. "Out, all of you!" She shouted at the women. "This is not your sewing circle." And they had left, silent and shame faced. Lykopis kept her seat in the corner, quietly wondering at the power in the old woman.

"You will do this, girl," Tereis told her mother, and Lykopis wondered at how silly it was to say. Of course she would. There was no other option. The little girl looked on as her mother grew more and more pale, seemed to struggle with each wave of pain. She would protect her sister until she was big enough to protect herself, she'd sworn over and over. As her mother gave a keening, broken sound that Lykopis had never heard her make before, she quietly promised the Gods she'd protect her mother as well.

"It comes," Tereis said almost too long later. "Push, girl. Show me the strength you showed me in the storm." It made no sense to Lykopis, but it spurred her mother on as she pushed once more, collapsing back to the mattress as a high pitched cry pierced the air.

Tereis took her away, shifting just enough to reach a blanket to wrap the child in. "Is she well?" Anaxilea asked, and Tereis's silence made both mother and daughter uncomfortable.

"Tell me if she's well," Anaxilea repeated herself long, agonizing moments later.

"He is healthy," Tereis said, her nearly white eyes turning toward Anaxilea, whose face crumpled. Lykopis wondered at the thought of a brother instead of a sister. Little did it matter though, in her eleven year old mind, until Tereis laid the child in her mother's arms.

Anaxilea had never been gentle with Lykopis, had never settled for less than strength either with the bow or the practice sword or riding, but she had never been unnecessarily cruel. It was shocking as her mother nearly dropped the child to the mattress and reached with blind fingers until they closed around a heavy object.

Horror and confusion flushed hot in the little girl's chest as her mother emptied a water pot and brought it high above her head with shaking hands, hesitating just a moment over the child before bringing it down hard.

"No!" The girl shouted, and lunged, little arms catching the pot and tearing it from her mother's hands. The weakness there astounded her. Never before had she been able to take something from her mother so easily. Dark eyes glared into dark eyes for a long while.

"It is not your sister," Anaxilea said at last. "It is your father's son."

"Blood is a powerful thing to swear by," Lykopis snarled at her mother, something that had gotten her struck in the past. Anaxilea's dark eyes widened for a moment until she let her arms fall to her sides.

"It binds a promise," Anaxilea said on a sigh that sounded far too exhausted to her daughter's ears. She lay back down on the thatched mattress as if it was her grave and let her eyes slip shut. Old Tereis picked the boy back up, wrapping him securely in another blanket and handed him to Lykopis, who took the child firmly, despite his weight.

"Take him to Dnaestre. A father names his son," Tereis said firmly, and Lykopis complied, ready to flee the birthing tent and the image of her mother - both too weak to sit and too weak to allow a child to live.

Dnaestre called him Galahad and took the boy from Lykopis's arms with a fierceness she had never seen in her father. He did not ask after his wife, and it would be weeks before Lykopis saw her mother again. It would be months before Anaxilea could look at her daughter again.

The first time Lykopis saw Anaxilea, her mother was walking far along one of the rises, a black form against the salt speckled grasses. The Black Sea seemed to make everything a dull grey with its salt and wind. Anaxilea had always seemed untouched by the land, something Lykopis thought magical when she was very young.

Old Tereis had asked Lykopis and another woman to help her to sit out on a hill, and had begged the girl to stay with her while the older left them. The girl had never been comfortable under the pale, milky eyes of Tereis, but she was of her mother's people, so Lykopis sat quietly.

Her mother had appeared just over a rise not long into their sit, and Lykopis set about studying her, trying to find that flaw in her that would let her kill the infant that Lykopis had sworn to protect. Tereis's milky eyes were turned toward her, and it made the girl more and more uncomfortable.

"What?" Lykopis finally asked, voice dangerously close to the snarl that she tried to keep from her tone. Of all of the adults that had struck her for it though, Tereis always did so lightly, more affectionate than angry.

"I have a gift for you," Tereis said finally, and drew an old oil skin from beneath the folds of her clothing. How the old woman had managed to keep it hidden, Lykopis would never know.

"What is it?" She asked, sitting forward on her knees, her mother gone from her mind. Gifts were few and far between, and a gift from Tereis moreso.

The oilskin was drawn back reverently, with shaking hands. Despite her half blind eyes, the woman was deft, never fumbling as she unwrapped cloth and leather thongs. Inside, the sharp grey on black coloring of a wolf's pent peeked. Finally, Tereis held it out to her, and Lykopis took it with delicate hands.

A wolf-a large beast, larger than any wolf Lykopis had ever seen-had been skinned completely down, and the pelt stretched. The bottom jaw of the creature fell wide, and the eye holes were eerie and empty.

"A wolf's pelt, for the naked wolf," Tereis murmured, a smile on her lips. Lykopis scoffed at the statement. The old woman had called her naked wolf time and time again throughout their brief interactions. "Put it on. There is a hood, to pull up over your eyes." She did as she was commanded, and surely enough, the pelt at been worked until it stretched up and over her entire head, falling well past her eyes, blinding her.

"It's too big," Lykopis muttered, pulling it off.

"Good," Tereis countered. "If it wasn't, you'd never be able to grow into it." The old woman held it in her lap, and they sat there for long hours, Tereis explaining how to oil the pelt and Lykopis half listening.

The sun was sinking over the harsh wind swept grasses when the young woman who helped Tereis to the hill approached again. "I'll find my own way," Tereis shoo'd her, and the woman went without question.

"I should-"

"There is another gift, in the skin," Tereis said, cutting her off. The woman's voice was hoarse, tired from talking for so long. Lykopis pulled the oil skin toward her and carefully finishing unfolding it. From within, an odd blade fell, and as Lykopis picked it up, she recognized the series of blades as claws.

Tereis took the odd weapon from her and put it to her own hand, showing Lykopis how the worked metal pulled down over her hand, and how to grip the bar holding the claws so that they were pulled firm against the back of her hand, extending forward like the reaching paw of the wolf.

"Mother won't let me have a weapon of my own until I've proved I can use it," Lykopis said carefully as the old woman laid the claws into her lap.

"You made a promise in blood to protect that boy," Tereis said firmly. "You'll need something to keep that promise." Lykopis sat quiet for a long while before pulling the weapon down onto her hand as Tereis had done. It was too big in her small hand, but the bar of it laid directly along the scar she'd made with her promise that day.

"It is perfect," she said, voice thick and gravel through a sudden lump in her throat. Tereis chuckled tiredly at her comment. "You made these?"

"They were given to my mother," Tereis countered. "She shared your name. The claws themselves have to be replaced over time, because they become brittle, but the pelt will stay if you oil it as I showed you." Lykopis nodded firmly and looked at the eerie pelt with new eyes.

Old Tereis sent her home shortly after the sun sank low over the horizon. Lykopis had asked her if she should find someone to help her down, but the woman had shook her head and shoo'd her away.

That was the last Lykopis saw of Tereis. The next morning, the woman was found, dead on the hilltop. The Scythians did not linger over death, and Tereis was laid on a funerary pyre and burned in the early hours of the morning. The ashes of the timber were swept up in the wind, and Lykopis watched them through tear-blurred eyes. Downwind, along the salt-speckled grasses, her mother stood, watching the fire burn. The grey of the ash bespeckled her the same grey as the land.

So-Lykopis thought bitterly with the wolf's claw and pelt hugged tight to her chest-her mother was not untouchable after all.

* * *

><p>Tereis had been right, in her final moments, to give her the claws, Lykopis decided a few years later, when she stood in front of her four year old brother. The metal bit into her palm, but the wicked blades were what glinted with blood.<p>

Galahad was on his back in the sea-stained grass, a cut across his little forehead. She'd been slow, just a little too slow. It didn't matter though. The older boy, eight or nine, had gotten a good blow in, hitting Galahad in the head with his wooden practice sword.

The other boy had paid for the blow four-fold where the wicked claws had slid deeply into his shoulder. It was the first time Lykopis had drawn blood with them, the first time that she'd really used any weapon more than on her own in practice. Anaxilea had retreated back from even her daughter after Tereis's death, leaving her to learn on her own under the firm and unfair hand of her father.

As he had aged, there was a softening to the man, especially after the ailment last year, where half of his body had refused to function. To that day on the plain, when Lykopis used the claws for the first time and pulled the wolf fur over her head, the left side of her father's face refused to lift up.

"Atanea," Galahad said from the ground, his voice thick with tears. "Atanea, help," and she had, turning from the younger boy and letting him run to his own mother. She eased Galahad upright, sharp brown eyes studying the gash on his forehead for a long while before sighing and letting the claws slip away from her knuckles.

"Let's get you to father, little cub," she said, but her voice cracked. At fifteen, the daughter of a reclusive Amazon war-prize and the wearer of the morbid wolf pelt, Atanea was not well accepted into the Scythian village. Lykopis was even more feared.

Galahad clung to her back without second thought, and let himself be carried back down a rise in the plain and toward their hut, where Dnaestre would be waiting. Not for the first or last time, Lykopis wondered at the slightness to her brother, the weakness to his body.

It would be a little over a year later that that weakness would truly become tragedy, when the red-maned Romans came riding over the rise. Dnaestre had spotted them first, just cresting one of the taller hills in the distance, and he had gone silent, gathering a pack without words to either of his children.

The stories that the men whispered to themselves around fires at night were coming true, and Lykopis knew her brother would be gone with the high sun. She sought out her mother for the first time in years.

"Anaxilea," she called across the small wind swept garden they kept behind the hut. Little would grow in the saline ground, but they tried anyway. The woman was bent over a stubborn bit of greenery that Lykopis couldn't identify in her sixteen year old mind.

"Does a daughter call her mother by her name?" Anaxilea asked but didn't bother to straighten.

"I wouldn't know. I haven't seen my mother in five years," Lykopis countered, and her mother's dark head of hair fell slightly before the salt-speckled woman straightened slowly and turned toward her daughter. It was laughable, really, Lykopis thought as she looked at her mother directly for the first time in years, that she had once thought this woman perfectly untouchable.

"Fair enough," Anaxilea answered, wiping soil stained hands on her tunic.

"Romans came over the rise," Lykopis said, explaining her interruption.

"The Scythians have what is coming to them," Anaxilea said bitterly, turning back toward her garden. "Let Dnaestre suffer." The pair stood there a long time, neither talking or looking at the other.

"Then you will suffer alone," Lykopis said finally. "I will follow him, and I will bring him back to the only thing he knows." Her mother's startled eyes looked to her then, truly, for the first time in so long.

"You punish me," Anaxilea said at last. "You won't bring him back. The Romans will kill all of their sons in fifteen years."

"Probably, but not what is mine," Lykopis agreed. "I've been protecting him from everything since you tried to kill him."

"He was the son of the man that took my people!" Anaxilea defended herself, voice firm and angry.

"He was your son!" Lykopis growled low, her voice had taken on the rough rumble nearly constantly from lack of use over the years. "And he is my brother. If you've done anything for him it was making me strong enough to protect him from this." Lykopis turned and left her mother there, knee deep in failing plants, ever the failure of a mother.

The Romans came with little fan-fair, which settled well enough with everyone. Lykopis watched with sharp eyes as six men waited for their boys to leave their mother's skirts or their father's sides.

Galahad went first, and for that, she was silently proud. The little boy, smaller than the rest and the second youngest to be taken from the village, left Dnaestre's side with a too-big sword strapped to his back.

_"It's too heavy?" Anaxilea taunted as Lykopis tried to lift her blade. "Good, this ends lives," her mother told her, bending in front of her and lifting the sword with ease. "It should be the heaviest thing you ever carry."_

Tears had fallen silently down Dnaestre's face as his son took the first steps away, leading the others toward their future. Lykopis couldn't help but think that they were taking the long walk to their own funerary pyres.

She watched for only a moment before ducking into their hut and pulling her the wolf pelt cloak and the claws from her bed furs. Tereis had been right, she was growing into both of them.

"If you're fool enough to go, you'll need more than a pelt," Anaxilea's harsh voice cut through the hut, freezing Lykopis where she stood. How long had it been since her mother had entered her own home? There were rumors that the woman simply slipped into the earth at night, disappearing and reappearing when the sun rose. Lykopis wasn't so sure that they weren't true.

"What else do I have to take?" Lykopis asked, her dark brown eyes locking on her mother, who crossed easily to a small trunk that had been pushed to the end of Dnaestre's sleeping pallet. From within the wooden trunk, Anaxilea pulled an old blanket, bulky and useless for travel, setting it down on the ground. "I can't carry-"

"Quiet," Anaxilea told her daughter, a small smile on her lips. "Look," she said, unwrapping the blanket and pulling from it a set of leather armor, old and of a make Lykopis had never seen before. "Mine, from before. Dnaestre kept it as a reminder of what he had conquered."

"It will never fit me," Lykopis countered, but her mother was undoing buckles with deft fingers and pulling pieces across her chest and abdomen, arms and legs without difficulty. When it had all finally gone into place, Anaxilea took a step back, a hand across her mouth and eyes lingering over the leather.

"Bend, move. Feel the weight and the give," she ordered, and begrudgingly, Lykopis followed her mother's commands. The leather moved well with her, hampering little, but it wouldn't hold up to a blade or an arrow.

"It's not going to protect me from anything," she said, trying to find fault with the gift. Wearing her mother's armor was something that would have thrilled her as a child. Now, she almost felt like it was a betrayal to her brother.

"It isn't meant to keep you from being run through," Anaxilea countered. "You have to be quick and smart. This will keep glancing blows from doing any damage and let you be faster than your opponent." She looked down at the leather one last time before looking at her daughter again. The woman's breath caught in her throat as she took in her dark hair and eyes, the scowl on her face. Truly, she marveled, this was like looking into a polished shield. She silently prayed that her daughter's time in the armor wouldn't end like her own.

"Why are you helping?" Lykopis asked after a long silence. The Roman horses were nickering outside still, but the sound was growing more and more distant. "You want Galahad gone."

"And he will stay gone," Anaxilea countered. "For fifteen years, he will be gone and so will my daughter." She drew a long breath, and Lykopis could see the years on her face in that moment. "I was not meant to be a mother," she said simply. "Tereis was the only reason I was successful with you. You were a girl. You were of my people. Now, I can't even remember what my people looked like. That boy...that boy is mine. He is my family, and as damned as I am for wanting him dead, I'm more damned for asking you to bring him back."

"You aren't asking," Lykopis said, suddenly uncomfortable in the armor and the hut. "I'm going on my own."

"And I'm letting you," Anaxilea said. "I'm letting my only daughter go after a boy I never called son. Tell me how my Goddess would forgive that?" The woman asked, tears running down her cheeks. Lykopis had no answer, so she gave none. Instead, she pulled the claws across her hand and picked up the rucksack she'd packed earlier, when the red maned bastards had first come up over a hill.

"Fifteen years," Lykopis said simply. "We'll talk if you're still alive."

"Fifteen years," Anaxilea agreed. "They'll sing songs about you in fifteen years." The idea wasn't as repulsive as the scoff Lykopis gave suggested it was. "You remind him of who he is; don't let him forget like I've forgotten." Anaxilea gave the command firmly, and Lykopis nodded. It was all the communication either could handle, and Lykopis ducked out the front of the hut while Anaxilea left through the back.

Quietly, the younger woman followed the Romans as they picked their way from village to village across the Crimea. It would be a long fifteen years. She looked back over the wind swept grasses that she was crossing, wondering if she'd miss the salt-speckled nothingness.


	3. Chapter 3

AN: This chapter will be perhaps the longest in the entire piece. I told myself that no more than three chapters would run prior to the starting of events in the film. Technically, this chapter is the start of the film, but there is a great deal woven into here that you just don't see. For instance, how these boys become captive. The next chapter you're going to see how Romans turn boys into men. Additionally, thank you for the reviews! I enjoy this piece, so will probably finish it rather quickly, but I adore reviews, so the more the faster chapters will come.

**Chapter Three: Collecting Souls**

**-Gawain-**

Lykopis shadowed the Romans over the foothills, something that was easily done as their bright red manes stood out from a great distance. They camped each night far longer than Lykopis needed, so she caught up in the shadow of the moon, moved past them, and waited once more for the large group to bypass her.

She thought for a long while that perhaps the Romans would content themselves with her village and the few they'd visited along the way. She'd been wrong. She'd been so very wrong.

The first was a quiet thing, with three young boys slipping amongst them without question or ceremony. Several more passed the same way, until Lykopis was sick with the Scythians. Their futures marched out to nothingness. Fifteen years. Fifteen years, if they returned, and in those fifteen years, their future would no longer be theirs.

She stopped shadowing them, and started slipping past more, into the villages and waiting until the Romans caught her up. No one questioned her too closely. What did they have to question? They'd see the Romans on the foothills, and they knew that it was just a matter of time. They were too distracted in their preparations to much care about a young woman slipping in and out of their village.

In their preparations, they cried and begged. They raged and promised. The promises were what turned Lykopis's stomach the most.

She'd sat down against a well after refilling an oilskin and pulling bits of dried rabbit from a rucksack. A few feet off, a young couple shared kisses, whispering promises that were caught by the wind and brought to Lykopis.

"Come back to me," a red haired girl begged, big green eyes staring intently at the young man. And he was a young man. Lykopis's own age, with large arms and a strong back already, he would be what the Roman's needed. A wild mane of golden brown hair ran down to his midback in wild curls and tangles. The young woman ran her fingers through that hair, rubbing it between them and smiling.

"I promise," he whispered to her before kissing her soundly.

"I'm going to miss you," she murmured against his lips. "I'm going to miss the feel of your hands and my fingers in your hair." She smiled soft lipped and watery eyed. He kissed her again, and muttered something that Lykopis didn't hear.

He drew a dagger from a boot and brought it up to his hair, severing it close to his scalp with ragged sawing motions. The leather thongs kept it mostly together, and he laid it across her hands. He whispered something into her neck that Lykopis wished she hadn't heard.

"Don't cut it again until you're with me," the girl demanded, and the young man nodded. "I mean it, Gawain. You will come back to me." She tugged at the short hair on his head firmly to bring him back to her for another kiss.

"I will come back to you," he echoed before turning away from her and meeting with four other young men-all around his age-to ride out to meet the Romans before they made the town.

Quietly, Lykopis wondered at their eagerness, until her eyes caught a few younger ones, only Galahad's age, hiding with the girl children or behind their mother's skirts. She stilled at that, back pressed against the well, marveling at the strength that it took to ride out and meet their deaths head on. She eyed the young, sobbing woman with a new light.

That night, as she slipped from the village by moonlight, she wondered at the strength of children, of young people, of men that had not yet known what they were going to meet. The world passed quickly beneath her feet, until a sobbing and a rhythmic cracking echoed over a flat trough in the land.

In the distance, something sparked and died out repeatedly.

Lykopis followed it, eyes well adjusted to the dark. The moon had long since faded down into the horizon, so the brief flares of light were welcomed. In the flashes, she made out hunched shoulders and fair hair, a soft form and the glistening of tears.

She watched Gawain's lover a long while in the darkness, catching glimpses as the girl tried to light a fire. Sharp eyes caught the grasses she was using, knowing that they had a thick core of damp sinew despite their dry appearance.

"Damn it," the girl whispered as she struck the stone again. "Damn them all," she muttered. Finally, she gave up, throwing the flint and striking stone away. In the dark, it rolled, nearly colliding with Lykopis's foot.

"Your name, girl?" She asked in the quiet. Even in the darkness, she could see her jump, turn to the sound.

"Who's there?" She asked, and Lykopis sent her eyes heavenward, silently asking her mother's gods for strength.

"I asked your name," she replied, bending to lift the flint and striker. Sorting through the grasses at her feet, she picked the most dried, the most brittle, arranging them in a little pyre with a small bundle of kindling that she carried with her, collected during the day, when the sun was at its hottest and the grasses their driest.

The striker only found purchase once before the kindling caught. Soon, the girl was huddle on the other side of a small fire, viciously rubbing at her shoulders for warmth.

"Thank you," she said simply, bending low over the flame to try and glean enough heat. Lykopis didn't respond. Instead, she stretched her legs out on either side of the small blaze, letting it warm her to her bones.

"Your name, girl," she repeated, but it didn't hold the ire it should have. Not for this girl. Not for a thing that couldn't even light her own fire. The winters here were not as severe as they could be on the coast of the Black Sea, but she would soon catch her death.

"Izi," she answered, and Lykopis laughed down into the fire. The girl glared at her indignantly, her reddish brown hair falling over her shoulders and into her face, giving her a more fierce look than she'd had before. "My parents called me the fire; they didn't teach me how to start one." She snapped, and in that moment, Lykopis saw what Gawain saw. There was strength in her, even if it was untempered. "Who are you?"

"Oir-pata," Lykopis answered simply. The girl's eyes widened in the firelight. The word of Amazon was known among most of the Scythians. The slayers of men. Lykopis had been called that how often as a child, when she held a weapon or mimicked something that Dnaestre was trying to teach Galahad.

"But what do they call you?" Izi asked, and Lykopis wondered a long while at the girl's need for the knowledge.

"Atanea," she finally said. "Your people call me Atanea."

"And what do you call yourself?"

"What does it matter what I call myself?" Lykopis asked finally, leaning away from the fire and rising to her feet. "Will it matter what they call you in the morning, when you've half frozen? Go home, little Izi." She turned away from the fire only making it a few steps before a heat bloomed against her shoulder.

Quickly, she turned, slapping at the burning and glaring down at the end of a burning stick from the fire. With a snarl, she turned back toward the girl. "I will do no such thing!" Izi yelled at her, voice carrying over the flat of the land.

"Why?" Lykopis knew the world was growled, that it was low and angry. "Because you will follow your lover until your death? Because you think it better to die at a Roman's hand than to wait the fifteen years?"

"Yes!" Izi shouted, rising to her feet. The girl had tears running down her cheeks. Promises. Lykopis hated the whispered promises the most. "I would follow him anywhere," Izi raged. "I would die in a year if it meant that year was at his side."

"And what of his death?" Lykopis asked finally. "When the Romans find you trailing, and he is compelled to defend your honor? What of the wicked needs of men too far from their wives? What of when they kill him for defending you? Because they will kill him, little girl."

"I...They won't-"

"Oh, they will," she countered. "They'll do it the Roman way. They'll bind his hands and feet to separate horses and let them pull at him a while, breaking bones and dislocating joints. His skin will pull and it will only take a gentle tap..." Lykopis stepped around the fire, into the girl's space. "Here," she pressed two fingers to the girl's breast bone. "And your Gawain will be torn in four."

"No," a little sob escaped her throat. "No, I won't be-"

"Seen?" Lykopis cut in again. "Because I've seen you since you left your village. You are not stealth. You are not strength. You, little Izi, will go back to your village in the morning. You will learn as your friends will learn, that your futures are set for you, and you will wait for him."

At her knees, the girl collapsed, sobbing into the thong of hair that he'd given her. Lykopis stood a long while, staring at the girl before she sighed and dropped into a crouch beside her. They weren't so different in years, not really. They really weren't so different in desires, either.

"Go home when the sun rises, Izi," Lykopis ordered. "Go home, and in fifteen years, if your Gawain lives, I will return him to you." Startled eyes rose to meet hers.

"You follow them," she said simply.

"I follow them," Lykopis agreed.

"What gives you the right to send me away?" Izi demanded, that fire back in her eyes both from the reflection of the slowly dying pyre and from within. "You'll get your lover killed just as easily."

"I don't follow a lover," Lykopis said simply. She thought a moment before reaching behind her to pull the wolf's head up over her own. Normally, the hood felt wrong, but there, in the flickering firelight, with the stars above and this girl in front of her, it felt right. "And Lykopis is never seen."

"Lykopis..." The girl turned the word over in her mouth twice before her eyes slipped from the hood to the set of claws that hung harmlessly at her waist. "A girl really can't keep them safe, can she?" She asked finally.

"No," Lykopis answered.

"But an animal can," Izi said firmly. "An Oir-pata can." Lykopis thought on that less than a moment before nodding, the firelight making the gesture seem bigger than it was. Quietly, the girl turned away from the animal and settled in front of the fire once more.

"In the morning-"

"In the morning, I will return to my village," Izi said. "And in fifteen years, a wolf will bring my lover back to me." Those eyes turned on her again. "Or I will hunt down every wolf that has ever lived and kill it." Lykopis laughed up into the stars.

"You could try," she said. "If your Gawain lives, I will bring him to you."

"If he doesn't?" Izi's voice was remarkably strong for the question.

"If he doesn't, someone will bring news to your village." Lykopis said, though she wasn't sure it was true. Would the Romans even know where they'd collected each of their new slaves? Would they bother to inform their families of their deaths?

The pair sat in silence, and in the morning, when Lykopis woke, Izi was gone. Instead, by the long gone fire, a leather thong of hair sat, well loved but abandoned.

-R.P. Wolf Moon: Gathering Souls, Gawain-

Galahad was trailing behind, had been for the better part of three days, and Lykopis's sharp eyes didn't miss that with each day, it took him longer and longer to catch up when the Romans called a halt to their long march.

Another boy, a year younger than Galahad and no more than just off of his mother's breast and walking, was with him. The two spoke together, though of what, even Lykopis's ears weren't that good. They slept beside each other at night, sharing their fears and their nightmares.

It had only been a few weeks into their march when the Romans grew tired of the strays. Lykopis watched, flat on her stomach just over the rise of a hill, as a red-maned man jumped from his horse, urging both boys forward with a sharp kick to their backsides. The smaller boy stumbled and fell. Galahad nearly lost his balance, but regained it with several quick steps.

They were slow moving forward, and he drew his blade, urging them on with the flat of it. Silently, the wolf slipped her bow from her back, fingering an arrow delicately. Galahad and the other boy had fallen far enough behind, Lykopis was sure she could kill the man, take her brother and be gone in silence.

Except the Romans knew. The Romans knew everything, it seemed.

Where the clans went. How there were just a few more boys hiding amongst their mother's skirts. Would they know where Lykopis would take Galahad? Would they know?

She had heard it said that the Romans once worshipped deities that were similar to her own, if not the same. Did they answer the Romans' prayers still? Did their new God? Another slap with the flat of the blade had her rising just enough to level the bow and draw the arrow forward, ready if it needed to be used.

"Oy!" A voice cut through the air, and just like that, Lykopis relaxed her arm. The large Sarmatian horse barreled between the Roman and the two boys, and an arm reached down to draw Galahad up into the saddle in front of him before the other boy was pulled behind. "They're boys," Gawain nearly growled at the Roman. "Half starved and not big enough to have been taken to start."

The Roman shouted something Lykopis couldn't hear as the young lion kicked his heels into his horse.

That night, the two boys did not sleep alone. Curled up to the belly of Gawain's horse, all three sat, sharing their quiet fears and their fire. Damn him, Lykopis thought as their fire flickered in the distance. Damn him, but something in her cared that he survived the Romans.

So, as they marched and took more villages, she watched him, telling herself that it was simply because her brother rode before him. She watched the night that they all fell asleep, the nameless younger boy between them. She watched in the morning when that boy didn't wake. It was the first time her brother had known death, the first time he had known grief.

It was a dark thing.

Lykopis did not watch again for many days.

**-Tristram-**

It was a village as different from her own as it could have been. The wide, open plains had given way to dots of foliage, corpses of trees and narrow streams. They'd come upon a large pine forrest, too thick to really see through, which served Lykopis's purposes well. It was easier to hide amongst the trees than on a wide, flat land.

Three Romans were left with the children, their swords drawn and eyes sharp. The other six took measured steps through the underbrush, their long capes tangling with brambles and their tall, proud helmets catching on branches until they were forced to remove both as the forest thickened.

The village was not one that Lykopis was ready for. Small but bustling, men and women shouted at each other-either in jest or anger or both-and children ran amongst their parents' feet.

The houses were taller and made up entirely of the timber around them, and Lykopis wondered at the time it must have taken to build up a village like this one. A sharp cry broke the air, and she was startled from her study of a pair of dogs as they chased each other through the villagers.

Above, up in the trees, the cry came again, and Lykopis's eyes had a difficult time picking out the form of the hawk there. It hadn't missed her though, or the six Romans that still weaved behind her, through the trees.

"Ay!" Someone shouted from below, and the jovial hustle changed into a scramble. Four young men ran from their homes, swords and bows in hand, tossing weapons amongst each other and their fathers.

When the Roman stepped out from the tree line, they were met with what Lykopis had expected all along: resistance. With their bronze swords as their armor, the Romans were a force to be reckoned with, but there, in the forest, they met a wall that would cost them.

It started as civilly as anything that starts with weapons can. An old man, face twisted by some ailment or injury, spoke in clipped words that Lykopis couldn't quite make out from amongst the trees.

As all fires, this one started with tinder, a shout from a young man that hid behind his father's shoulder. A spark igniting in the belly of the Romans. Drawn weapons and the slightest of movements caught the kindling and ignited the blaze of bloodshed.

Her sharp eyes caught the hail of arrows down from one of the taller buildings, and the projectiles picked off two Romans before another kicked a burning ember from a campfire into the wooden beams of the lower level. She caught a flash of dark hair and pale skin before the archer disappeared from the window.

Below, on the ground, the few men old enough and capable enough to fight were dealt with in a well practiced manner that left none standing except two proud Romans. Lykopis turned from the site and backtracked back toward the main group where three Romans remained. It would be too easy, she knew, to pick off the three and take Galahad and one of their horses. The question became of Rome, how they responded and where they could run. Would they send an army through the whole of Sarmatia as they had done in the past? Would they hunt them down to the end of their days?

It didn't matter, because a few moments later, the two living Romans came through the treeline, dragging two struggling boys behind them.

Roughly the same age, they were mirrors of each other, one dark haired and eyed and the other light haired with eyes a color Lykopis couldn't place at such a distance. Both were forced to their knees, one beside the other. No one missed the firm look they sent each other or the way that their shoulders brushed harder than necessary from their positions, lending strength.

Not any older or younger than herself, they were proud, too proud to bow before the Romans and beg for their lives. One of the Romans crossed to the other three, no doubt telling them what had transpired in the wood. Annoyed with the silence and difficulty hearing as the last Roman spoke to the other two, she tracked around, slipping through cover that wasn't truly thick enough to keep her covered as she'd have liked to listen.

"Let this be a lesson to you all!" The Roman shouted, and a sick stone fell in Lykopis's stomach. "Choose between you." The Roman told the two kneeling boys, who turned firm eyes on each other. Finally, the dark haired boy looked away, eyes coming up to meet the Roman's with a fierceness that she hadn't seen in some time.

"I will not fight your war. The first weapon you put in my hands will end Roman lives," he said. "He will fight your war." He turned back toward the paler boy, who's jaw had fallen and eyes had gone wide.

"Tris-" he managed to say before he was hauled up by his elbow and toward the other group of boys. "Tristram!" He shouted the other boy's name fully.

The Roman who Tristram had spoken to drew his heavy bronze sword, laying the tip in the grass in front of him, head bowed in prayer.

"Tristram, you bastard, you fight this," the paler boy shouted. Still, the dark haired boy kept his head bowed, not watching as another Roman helped keep his friend contained. The executioner lifted his blade, walking around to Tristram's back.

"I'll kill you," the other screamed, throwing elbows and thrashing, and the way his eyes-green, how could they have been anything but green?-stared hard at Tristram made Lykopis question who he was threatening.

The heavy bronze sword came up and the Roman asked for last words. Tristram, on his knees, finally raised his head, those dark eyes finding his friend over the small heads that separated them. They widened and his jaw fell slightly in horror before Lykopis realized that the paler haired boy had throwing a lucky elbow, catching one of the Roman's off guard and letting him twist free, one of their heavy swords in his hand as he left across the short space between them.

"Din!" Tristram shouted, but the Roman stepped around him, the bronze blade coming up and down in a wicked parry and slash. Din dropped to the ground in front of Tristram, those green eyes nearly lit with a sickened glee. "You stupid bastard," Tristram muttered, watching as the blood bloomed across his shoulder and well down his left side, thick and fast.

"You cheated first," Din managed to mutter, his green eyes staring back at his friend before they closed. Even from the treeline Lykopis could see the rise and fall of the boy's chest as Tristram was forced to his feet and bound with a length of rope to a Roman saddle.

Even through the growing smoke from the burning village behind her, Lykopis could see the dark haired young man walk backward at the end of his lead, refusing to turn away from his friend's last minutes.

There, standing in the smoke, Lykopis made the hardest decision she had ever made.

She let her brother go.

In the passing next hour, she tended the wound, pressing thick herbs into the deepest parts and binding them closed as she'd seen old Tereis do once with a hollowed bird bone and twine.

It looked well enough and the bleeding stopped quickly, but the boy named Din did not stir for several long hours. In the quiet of the failing sunlight, she wondered if he would. If she'd made the right decision, and most of all, if she'd catch her brother in the coming days.

Din woke the next morning with the sun, his face scrunching up in pain as he forced himself to sit upright, one hand to the wound in his chest. "Gods," he muttered, eyes falling closed against the glare of the sun.

"Hell looks a lot like home," he mused, as he once again opened his eyes. Lykopis sat across a small fire from him, her sharp eyes watching him. "You're new." He said, tilting his head just enough to indicate a question.

"I bound your wound," she answered simply. "Your friend lives, but the Romans marched on last night."

"Ah," Din murmured, eyeing the work that had been done on his chest through the gap in his top made by the blade. "I live, so I thank you."

"What you did was foolish. They could have just killed the pair of you," Lykopis said what had been itching at her mind since the moment the pale haired boy had fallen. He studied her a long moment.

"You haven't many friends, have you?" He asked, but he shook his head at his own question. "I would rather die with him than have him die alone."

"You would have died alone," she countered, and he gave her a rueful smile.

"A chance I was willing to take," he answered, and she nodded, accepting it for the mindless chivalry between boys that it was. "You aren't from the village. Why were you here?"

"I follow my brother," she answered simply. "If I can catch them through the day and the night."

"We'd better get going, then," Din said, pushing himself to his feet only to nearly fall back over again. He took two staggering steps in the wrong direction before he shook himself and turned back toward her. "I am Dinadan, and I would be eternally grateful if you'd at least point in the right direction."

"You aren't going anywhere," Lykopis said simply. "You will rest and find another village. I don't gather sheep."

"No, a wolf wouldn't," he answered, eyeing the hood that fell across her eyes. "Maybe a pack, then?" He asked

"Can you fend for yourself?" She asked. "Keep up? March through the night and the day to find them and continue to keep up their pace?"

"If I can't, leave me to be picked at by the crows," Din said, and something in his tone made Lykopis nod. She stood up, kicking at the last embers of her fire. The pale haired boy took a few steps toward her, far more steady than his previous two and pushed her hood back firmly before she could stop him.

"Greetings," he said simply, staring her in the eyes. "If we're to march together, I'd know your name."

"Call me wolf," she said, turning away from him and starting toward the direction her brother had gone. "If we catch them, I won't have to kill you."

"If we catch them, Rome will do it for you," Din said, but there was no anger to his voice, just a morbidly jovial tone.

"We don't catch them, then," Lykopis said before she'd known the words were coming to her lips. It had been a long time since she'd had someone to talk to. Perhaps, she told herself, someone to wait out the fifteen years with wouldn't be unwelcome.

"I can't leave Tris-"

"I can't leave Galahad," Lykopis cut him off, turning in the dried out grasses to stare at him, taking his measure. He had no weapons, any that he one had destroyed in the burned out village the night before. He was tall enough, but still lanky as any teen. Worst of all though, was that she already had seen him hold a blade. Weak at the wrist and too much shoulder, he wouldn't have lasted but a few moments against her mother. "What do you plan to do?" She asked him finally.

"Wha-"

"Say you do catch up to the Romans, you can't just take him from under their noses. He's special to them. He stands out. They'd ride you down before you found your first patch of wood to hide in."

"Then I don't just take him," Din argued. "I'm patient, and Tristram and I talked about when the Romans came."

"Then what was your plan?" She pressed again.

"If one of us was to go, then the other would as well," Dinadan said simply. "We'd look out for each other, make sure that we both left alive."

"You show your face and the Roman will finish what he started," Lykopis warned. "Tell me how Tristram will forgive that."

"So I don't show my face!" He shouted at her, annoyed. "I hide and wait until I can get him out."

"Even if it is fifteen years?" She asked. "Because Rome will not let them slip through their fingers. Rome keeps what it takes."

"Yes, even if it is fifteen years," Din vowed. It was a foolish thing, she knew, gifting fifteen years of self imposed servitude, but it was something she'd done herself.

"Lykopis," she said and turned her back to him to continue the long walk ahead.

"What?" Dinadan asked as he followed her, lagging from the tension that movement put against his wound.

"If we're going to be skulking in holes and around walls with each other for fifteen years, I'd prefer you call me Lykopis." She didn't bother to turn as she explained, and Dinadan quickly caught her meaning. The night came and went, and just as the sun was rising over a little town in the middle of a wide open field, the pair caught sight of the group of children, nearly doubled in size, with a fresh group of red-maned Romans, some twenty in total.

**-Bors-**

The Romans left the children with only three guards, the rest wading through a ghost town of a village. Doors were shut tight. No one met them in the small dirt roads. No one made noise.

From across a windswept hill, Lykopis laid on her belly, watching as best she could, ear straining hard for voices on the wind. None came until an ear piercing shout that she couldn't quite make out.

"That's a war cry," Dinadan said from beside her, his own face lighting up in a smile. "We aren't the only tribe to challenge the Romans then."

"Yours won't be the only to die then," Lykopis muttered. They'd traded such barbs for the better part of the day and night, keeping each other on edge and as far away as was possible while traveling together.

"I don't see Tris," Din said quietly, and when Lykopis looked, his light eyes were searching for his companion amongst the heads. She quickly found Gawain and Galahad, atop his horse, but finding the darker haired youth was difficult. There were too many faces, but Tristram should have stood out a full head above the younger boys.

"There," she muttered, dark eyes finding the hunched form amongst the rest. He was bound-hands and feet-and sat against the rump of a horse as it lay down in the grass.

"He looks well," Din said simply, and Lykopis had to wonder at what Tristram might look like if he wasn't well or how Dinadan could even tell from such a distance. "Which is yours?" He asked her. It was a good question, really, because she and her brother bore differing looks. The question though, sparked another. Galahad rode behind Gawain on that horse, but it wasn't just her brother she swore to protect anymore. The older boy had done her job for her how many times in the past weeks?

"Those," she said simply, letting a finger come out and point well enough in the direction of Galahad and Gawain.

"Which?"

"Both of them," she said simply. "The younger is my brother. The other has protected him since he was taken. Both survive this if my life can mean the difference."

"All three of them," Din said, and when she looked at him, he was fierce faced and serious.

"I have my priorities," she said, knowing the response it would elicit after only a few hours with the other.

"Make him one of your priorities. The three of them survive this, all three of them, if either of our lives mean the difference." Within the village, one of the Romans shouted as another war cry was screamed loud enough for Lykopis to make out the single syllable.

A large, well stocked young man came around a home, face split somewhere and sending blood down the entire left side of his bald head and into his shirt. He held heavy daggers in both hands, using them both to bash and stab the Romans that circled him.

"A bull," Lykopis said easily, watching him fight. He split the skull of one of the Romans as another cut him deeply in the thigh, bringing him down to one knee only briefly.

"And old, for what they usually take," Dinadan muttered. In truth, the young man was probably three or four years their elder, but he was older than those she'd seen them take in the previous villages.

He stood shakily and charged again, but the wound to his thigh brought him down quickly and three Romans laid across his back, keeping him pinned while another tied his wrists and tossed his odd daggers into the dirt. Still, he bucked and lashed out with his legs, nearly biting the shoulder of one of his captors. A fighter, this one, Lykopis knew, a soft spot forming in her stomach. A good ally.

"Bors!" Someone shouted from within the village, and as he was hauled to his feet, a similarly shaped man stepped from a house. Old and bent with age, he balanced on one leg, the other long gone from some old battle. Under one shoulder, he propped a bent stick, keeping him upright. "Rous!" The old man screamed into the heavens, and the young man-Bors-echoed the war cry until the hilt of a Roman bronze sword came down hard on the back of his head.

He slumped forward into the dirt and was drug by his feet until a horse could be roused from the grasses to bind him to. As the Romans ushered their hoard of children forward, Lykopis stood on the rise. If Galahad would just look behind him...

"The four of them," she said to Dinadan as he stood.

"Four?" He asked, and glanced to her. He sighed as he followed her site of vision to the bull that they drug through the grasses, unconscious, bleeding, but alive and strong as anything. "Fine, the four of them," he turned toward her and held out his hand. Lykopis raked her vision over Bors and the two on horseback once more before turning to look at his hand. Quietly, she drew a dagger from her hip, cutting her palm before seizing Dinadan's and running it against the blade.

"Gods, what are you doing you-"

"Blood," she said, holding her hand palm toward him as the red ran down her wrist and dripped off her elbow. "Is a powerful thing to swear by." Din let his hand away from where he'd cradled it against his chest and looked at the wound. Not deep, but enough to draw enough blood to pool in the cut of us palm and drip off between his fingers.

"A powerful thing?" He asked holding the hand out again. She clasped it with hers hard and let go.

"Yes," she said easily. "It changes hearts." She muttered to herself, the memory of her mother flickering across her mind. Try as she might, from that day in the birthing tent, she couldn't manage the affection she'd felt as she'd stood at her mother's skirts and made her first oath.


	4. Chapter 4

AN: Initially, I had planned on creating some tie between all of the surviving knights and either Din or Lykopis, but realistically-and literally, writing wise-it just didn't make sense for there to be something so quickly with all of them. So, I've cut that, and decided instead to spend this chapter fleshing out the characters that are already tied to them and adding just one more. Mind you, just because one of them isn't tied to the pair early doesn't mean that I feel less or differently about them or that it will even change their fates. I just felt that certain characters spoke more deeply to my OC than the rest. And...I couldn't resist writing Dinadan into the piece. I know I took liberties with his looks, but I figured, to hell with it all, I wanted a good contrast.

**Chapter Four: The Making and Breaking of Men**

**Part One: Dinadan - A Woman**

They lost the Romans a week later, when the group splint into several smaller contingencies and went into different directions. At a distance, Lykopis couldn't pick out either Galahad or Gawain, and Dinadan had just as much difficulty.

Swearing to any god that would hear her, she followed the first to depart long enough to know that her brother wasn't there. Doubling back, she'd barely caught up with them just as Dinadan had retreated from another group. The argument they'd had when splitting ways long forgotten, they shadowed the larger contingency as closely as possible, sharp eyes looking for either of their charges.

In the clear sunlight of day, her brother was gone, Gawain with him, and the firm set of Din's jaw was confirmation enough that they'd lost them. Tracking, it came to be, was something that Lykopis was terrible at. Before she'd found Dinadan, she'd eaten what had fallen into her lap by luck or theft-villagers were often distracted when their sons were being stolen.

Dinadan, as it also came to be, was an excellent tracker, though, he admitted one evening around a campfire and two coneys roasting away, that Tristram was more accurate with the hunting. The hunting was of little consequence to Lykopis then though, as they backtracked through the Roman's path and Din's sharp eyes caught another divergence.

Days old, it was difficult to follow, and they found themselves only catching sight of Gawain lifting Galahad off of the horse and Tristram being drug onto a ship. Fear sparked in her stomach as they stood on the docks, mixed in with the locals that had come to see what the fuss was about. Men stood amongst women, and their dark hair, sharp noses and strong Roman jaws spoke of a settlement and not another Sarmatian village.

"How do we follow them in the ocean?" Lykopis asked herself, but Din heard her well enough, because his own mind was echoing the same fear.

"We can't," he murmured, face slack. "We can't track them in open ocean."

"Those are the Sarmatians," a high pitched woman's voice murmured to Lykopis next to her. "The barbarians that they take to Hadrian's Wall to serve Uther's son." Lykopis turned sharp eyes to the woman, who looked her up and down for the first time, as if realizing who she spoke to was far more barbarian than those they put aboard the ship.

"Hadrian's Wall?" Dinadan asked, a smile on his lips. The woman looked at him, hunger in her eyes and a smile on her own lips. Even Romans, Lykopis decided then, even Romans couldn't see past their own wishes.

"In Briton," the woman said, fanning herself coquettishly and staring down her nose at him. She was far older than he, old enough to be his mother in all honesty, but she looked at his green eyes and blonde hair like one that was evaluating a lover. Eyes traveled across his broad shoulders and down his waist.

"My lady, I'm afraid I haven't made your acquaintance in the past," he said, voice overly firm and words far from his usual speech patterns.

"Marggoria," She said, letting him take her hand and bow low over it. Lykopis turned away as her stomach revolted against the site. Another thing that her mind couldn't process that day in Gawain's village was the passion with which the two clung to each other. Now, in this settlement, the site of fake affection rotted in her stomach as Dinadan lead the woman a few paces off, speaking quietly into her ear as he held her arm to his elbow.

She slipped through the people, listening sharply to those that took supplies aboard before the final plant was raised and the ship left its mooring. Quietly, she sat on the dock, watching as the ship grew smaller and smaller in the distance. A short way off, she could hear a pair of dock laborers discussing the supply ship that would follow in a month's time.

A plan settled finally into the pit of her stomach, but the sour realization of a month without her eyes on her brother may mean his life was heavier.

"You sail the supply ship?" She asked from her seat. Both men turned toward her, eyeing her warily for a long moment.

"My brother," one finally answered. "Why?"

"Free labor," she said simply. "Free labor for passage for myself and another." She stood and crossed the few feet between them. "From now until the ship leaves and is seen safely to Briton."

"That's a month off!" The other shouted. "You'd be half-"

"Agreed," the other man said quickly, cutting him off. "From sun up until the end of day meal. You make enough for meals and to put a few coins in your pocket if you watch the ship through the night." Lykopis found herself nodding and reaching her scarred hand out to shake. Instead of taking it, the man dropped a coin purse into her hand, light with only a coin sitting lonely at the bottom.

"For tonight," he said easily. "The missus will appreciate having me home. Be here by sundown, or I'll come find that coin, even if its in your belly." He warned, and she nodded firmly before leaving. Dinadan, she reasoned, would have no trouble feeding himself for the month, what with his charm and that jaw the Roman woman seemed to enjoy staring at.

A few hours later, she sat on the bow of a ship, stomach threatening to spill into the ocean as it bobbed gently. A faint oil lamp shone from a few feet back, casting an eerie hue on the water below. "Better get off that boat," Dinadan's voice carried through the dark. "The owner wont'-"

"I watch the ship at night and work for the hand during the day until their evening meal," she said simply. "I'm free from their meal until sundown."

"That leaves you with a few hours to sleep," Din cautioned, but he'd seen the way that she stayed up most nights, only catching her asleep for an hour or two at the most before she shook herself awake.

"I cannot charm Roman women out of their gold," she said simply, a frown on her lips. She eyed him as he came into the oil light. His hair was disheveled, but his clothes were all where they had been before.

"Her husband is still to the east," he said simply. "She's lonely. I just ate her food and kept her company."

"I'm sure that is all a woman wants when her husband is several weeks hard march away," she countered, and Dinadan flushed deeply.

"She hasn't said anything-"

"Yet," Lykopis cut him off. "There is a supply ship leaving in one month. Try and tear yourself from her bed before then. I won't come find you." Din didn't say anything as he sulked off, annoyed and red eared.

He found her three weeks later, as she eased eggs into a boiling pot for several long minutes before putting them in a crate for passage within the week. He stood across the boiling water and eyed her for several long moments. Lykopis knew what he saw, because she had felt it herself. Deep bags beneath her eyes, a drawn look, tired and stretched too thin.

He looked much better, heavier than she'd remembered him, with new clothes-Roman clothes, her mind spat in distaste-and a coin purse strapped to his belt that was far larger than her own, which bulged happily where she kept it against her person at all times. She'd managed to earn far more than was promised, running errands and helping the dock hand's brother and wife in odd tasks.

"The painted whore returns," she hissed to herself, but if Din heard it, he made no reaction.

"When do we go?" He asked, as if he hadn't already checked himself. There was a change to him, one that she couldn't quite identify. A hardness to him that had been missing, even when he lay dying.

"Three days," Lykopis breathed, as if the words were on her tongue long before he'd asked for them. "Three days and we leave. You have to work for your passage while you're on the ship."

"I'll buy passage-"

"No," Lykopis cut him off. "You were soft before, and time with your Roman can have done you no good. You work for your passage, and when we get to Briton, if I still see in you the strength you showed for your friend, then we find Hadrian's Wall together. If I don't..."

"If you don't what?" Din asked firmly, annoyed at the accusation that he couldn't keep up with the labor. "You leave me? I'm not the one that was eating carrion and squirrels before we started traveling together." His reminder was sharp, mostly because it was right.

"Either way," she said. "The stronger would lose nothing." He nodded and eyed the boiling water in front of her.

"What are you doing?" He asked at length.

"The eggs go to rot unless they are cooked first," she said. "Boiled and stored in crates away from the sea water, they will stay well enough to eat."

"I have everything I need," he said easily, taking the wire wrack that she used to dip the eggs in with from her firmly. "Go, gather what you need and meet me back here before sundown." She eyed him a long moment before leaving. There were things she needed, things that they would need if all four of them were to survive the years.

The weapon smithy had spoken with her long and hard over the weeks ago what she'd asked of him, debating over prices and metals and the different aspects of what she'd asked for. In the end, he had haggled less over price and more over quality, as the time for the finished product came.

She ducked through the door, catching site of his only son, bent in the corner. Jaris was his name, and he had been stricken with an illness as a child, leaving one of his legs much shorter than the other. Even the act of walking was painful, and he couldn't stand at the forge for long hours, as his father did. His mother had died giving birth to him, and his older sister had been lost to the ocean years before.

The father-Ethris, damn it girl, not smithy-caught site of her with a wide lipped smile and swept her into a one armed embrace. "Ly, it is good to see you, when you can slip away," he said firmly, leading her back into the deeper recess of the forge.

"Come, they are done," he said proudly, preening over a table until Lykopis stood beside him. There, in a trunk lay two matching pieces, designed for large hands-Ethris's own had been the mold-to slide into. They were daggers much like those that Bors had used that day in the village, except these had been designed to protect his knuckles. The metal wrapped up and over them, padded on the inside with sheep's wool. The metal tapered off to a blade, wicked and curved back nearly the length of Ethris's forearm. They would be good for offense and defense, slashing and blocking. She smiled as she tested their weight.

"Beautiful," she murmured, and Ethris nearly vibrated at the compliment. He'd placed four different models before in the past, all shot down for some defect or another.

"The bow," Ethris said simply, offering over a heavy Sarmatian style bow. At first, it had taken him a long while to realize that she'd wanted it not for herself but for her brother, who was by far younger and weaker than she, but who would grow far stronger. He pulled the string back easily, but Lykopis knew that her brother would never rival the size of the smithy. Their father hadn't been an overly large man, not like Ethris.

"Arrows?" Lykopis asked, and the smith gave her a small clutch, just ten, but they would serve. Rome could supply arrows, but they would give Galahad a bow that he could draw with ease.

"You're sure you'd not rather something more manageable for him now?" He asked her as she slung it across her back and chest, the weapons for Bors long since tucked into her pack.

"It ends lives," she said simply. "It should be the most difficult thing he does every day, drawing this bow."

"It might get him killed, if he can't do it," he cautioned. "He won't be strong enough for many years."

"He's not meant to be," she answered. "This isn't for now." She fingered the delicate carving in the handle of the bow. "Your mark?" She asked, and he nodded, a proud father.

"On the other as well?" She asked, but she already knew the answer. He was a proud man, but he had every right. He'd remade and remade until her specifications had been met.

"I have the axes as well, but they're rather less specific," he cautioned, and she nodded. It hadn't been a specific thing she'd asked for. One heavy, meant for blocking and close combat. The other light, small but strong enough to throw and lodge in a man's chest. Gawain wore one at his hip, but it wasn't of the quality that these were, shining and strong, untested but waiting for blood.

"Perfect," she finally said, letting them join the other's in her pack. With nimble fingers, she drew her coin purse and gave it to the big man. He weighed it in his hand for a long moment before nodding and letting it slide, forgotten to the table.

"Did I ever tell you that Jaris's mother was Sarmatian?" He asked, and Lykopis shook her head. There was no purpose. He knew he hadn't. They'd spent hours on end discussing weaponry but only a few odd moments about themselves.

"No," Lykopis said.

"She was," Ethris murmured. "Beautiful hair and eyes. Dark as night." He turned his eyes on her and sighed. "My daughter was the same. She'd be your age, if she'd have survived."

"I am sorry for your losses," Lykopis echoed the sentiment she'd said when she'd first heard, except now it was genuine. She knew Ethris now, before it had been something to fill silence.

"Here," he said after nodding, pulling a large pack from beneath the table. "You're a poor liar, and you're less Roman than she was." He smiled warmly. "You follow your brother, but you aren't ready for it." He gave her the pack and pulled the tie open at the top. Inside were clothes, folded and rolled together neatly, something shined in the bottom of the sack, and he reached in, pulling it out and holding up a necklace, shining in the sunlight. On the end, a large black stone hung.

"I cannot accept this," she said firmly, watching as his eyes following the glint off of the gem.

"Obsidian," he explained. "And the only stone I found that reminded me of her eyes." The light caught and reflected off of the surface as he hung it around her neck. "The way I felt, the purse was too heavy for what you were taking. Go. I won't be indebted to anyone." He gave her an affectionate one armed hug and pushed her from his forge.

She went, wide eyed and clutching the pack to her chest, unsure of what all was within, but sure that should Ethris call for her, she'd have more than a hard time not heeding him to stay at her brother's side.

-The Making and Breaking of Men-

Lykopis couldn't help but laugh as Din puked up his egg over the side of The Gull.

"S'not funny," he muttered, head still between his arms as he spat out into the waves. Over the past month of sitting on the boat, even in mooring, the steady rocking motion had become nearly soothing to her. Din hadn't stepped foot on a boat in his life, and it was evident in the way that he couldn't do more than a few seconds of a task before heading toward the railing.

"It's a little funny," Lykopis told him, slapping him hard on the back before leaving to check that the cargo didn't come untied in the hull of the ship. It was two weeks into the voyage. There had been a rough go of it for a while, the wind blew in the wrong direction, forcing them back from where they'd come more often than it took them forward. Finally, the wind had turned, letting them bring Briton into view. The Captain claimed they'd make land by nightfall.

It was a good thing too, later that night when they eased against a rocky beach with a row boat. They'd run through the rations for the first half of the voyage and had threatened the return trip. A carriage awaited them, loading two wagons full before moving onward, through the rolling hills and sporadic trees.

Lykopis hadn't spoken to Dinadan since they'd left the boat, choosing instead to let him stew. There had been moments between them since boarding that had been friendly, but for the most part, they kept their distance. Now, she stooped low over a small pond, testing the water with her nose and tongue before drinking from it.

Din stood a few paces away, looking down in the still water, a cross look on his face. "Are we going to settle this?" He asked finally, and Lykopis looked up through the holes in her hood. He had kept up well enough on the ship if he was a little worse for the wear. His clothes were as filthy as hers, and with a sigh, she straightened up and stood in front of him, head tilted just to the side before she shoved him, hard, back into the pond.

She chuckled as he came back up, sputtering and rubbing his hair from his forehead, where it had been pushed flat. "Explain before I pull you in," he warned, catching his footing in the rocky ground and standing, the water no higher than his waist.

"The smell of her perfume on your clothes made me sick," she said simply. "Come on, we have to get to the Wall."

"All four of them?" Dinadan asked as he caught up to her, still dripping and now shivering in the cold. Lykopis eyed him for a long moment.

"Might as well be all four of them," she muttered. "Bastards keep doing things to make me want them alive."

**-Wolf Moon: The Making and Breaking of Men-**

**Part Two: Tristram - A Brother**

Tristram wasn't sure how long they'd been marching. There had been a time of sailing before, and marching again before that. Yet, none of it was quantified. None of it was real.

How could it be?

No. It wasn't real. A nightmare. A dream. He'd made some wood-witch angry, and they'd laid a plague on his sleep.

He only wished that he'd wake. It was getting harder to remind himself that it wasn't real, that Dinadan wasn't gone, and that he'd broken the promise he made to himself. He didn't fear death. He didn't fear a Roman blade or an arrow or any man alive. He feared for each step he took though, because with each step, his dream grew longer and more difficult to swallow down the truth.

Because he knew the truth. He knew. Somewhere bone deep, where he'd ingrained who he was and who he wanted to be, he knew that Dinadan was dead. They'd made promises, whispered in the woods or around fires late at night, the stars blinking down at them, that they'd stand by each other. They'd go with each other wherever the Romans wanted. They'd live and die by each other's sides, just as they had for sixteen years. Sixteen long years that were lies.

Lies cut short because Dinadan couldn't shut his mouth and do as he'd told him. Fight the Roman's war. Let Tristram die in the grass. Of course, and he'd be lying if he said he didn't see it, Dinadan would have done the same thing. He would have knelt there and let the Roman behead him without question if it meant Tristram walked away alive.

They were both liars.

A hawk screamed overhead, crying out in anger as it was chased from a meal. Still, his eyes looked west, despite the thousands of ocean and grass and mountain. Din would be picked clean by now. He knew how a corpse rotted, how it was ripped apart by the scavengers of the land.

"Hold!" The call to stop the march was shouted and he halted. They'd reached Hadrian's Wall a week and a half prior, and the Romans had them marching up and down the length of the wall-conditioning, they called it-in the evenings after a short meal and the morning wrestling training.

Now would be a mealtime. Something groaned deep in his abdomen. He ignored it as they were funneled through the wide gait and into the barracks that had been set for them. A meal would be laid out-stew of some kind, it was always a stew of some kind-but Tristram would let most of it sit there, forgotten as he tried to think past the pain in his stomach to remember that this was just a dream.

It was about a week later when he collapsed during their run down the Wall. He hadn't really noticed that his frame was getting slighter. He hadn't really even noticed when he started lagging behind in the run, when he started losing during the wrestling in the mornings.

It didn't really matter though, because as he rolled over and stared up at the sky, vaguely watching as a bird rode thermals hundreds of feet in the air, he didn't care. There wasn't much that could make him roll back over, climb to his feet, and finish the run back to the gate.

Something moved to his left, a few hundred yards off in the wood, but he didn't turn his head. Didn't look. He didn't even care if it was one of the blue-painted local people that the Romans whispered about into their wine.

No, in that moment, nothing mattered, and he simply closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, he wasn't overly surprised. The Romans let nothing go, not even a boy who washed out of their training. He was a bit surprised though, when an apple landed squarely against his breastbone.

"Who are you?" He asked, sitting upright quickly, words hushed slightly to keep from waking the boys on the cots a few feet away from him.

"Does the answer to that question mean anything?" The form asked, voice decidedly female. A hood was pulled up over her head, hiding her features well enough with the shadow that he couldn't make anything out in the darkness.

"No," he bit out the word as if it tasted bad. He dropped his eyes, staring down at the apple in his hands. His brow furrowed, the memory of the last time he'd been given a similar fruit springing into his mind unbidden.

Dinadan had tossed him one each morning for the past few years. He'd found a tree in the forest and safeguarded the location so fiercely that he refused to tell even Tristram where it lay. Instead, he brought him an apple every morning. If he were being honest, he'd missed the tang of the fruit on his tongue almost as fiercely as he missed the other man.

"The answer to the question you should have asked is: yes, I know what it means," she pointed at the apple in his lap. She turned in the shadow and slipped through the cots, leaving him to sit, weak as a just dropped fawn and twice as shocked.

In the dark of the barracks, he stared down at the apple, smaller and green instead of the deep red he was used to, but it was still an apple. It still meant home and something that he wouldn't bring himself to qualify.

Instead, he brought it to his lips, bit into the flesh, and laid back down, chewing slowly and trying not to allow himself to register that what he'd finally admitted as truth could in fact, be lie.

Lykopis slipped through the Roman fort, cloak pulled forward, covering her wolf pelt and anything that might identify her as any one person. They'd made Hadrian's wall only a few days ago, and what they'd seen had frightened Dinadan far more than she ever thought possible.

_Dinadan had spotted them first, running along the expanse of wall. He'd been hesitant to approach as closely as they had, but Lykopis and his own eagerness had insisted. They'd spent the better part of the next few days just watching, making sure that everyone was still alive. _

_Din couldn't tell at first, not really, not until they were on the last leg of their run when Tristram fell, knees colliding with the dirt, chest following. Then it had taken the better part of his own restraint and Lykopis burrying a foot into his stomach to keep him down until two Romans came out and drug his body back beyond the gate. _

_"I'm going to kill the bastard," Din hissed as Tristram disappeared inside Hadrian's Wall. "He's going to get himself killed." _

_"He should be able to handle that run," Lykopis agreed, eyeing the gate. _

_"He's not living," Din said simply, straightening up and taking a few steps backward into the wood. "I need a few hours, and after that, I need you to do something." He kept walking, disappearing into the trees. _

_"Because I'm your dog now," Lykopis murmured, leaning back against a tree trunk and sinking to the ground, watching the heavy stone wall and itching to find her brother on the other side. _

_She'd waited until nearly sundown, when Dinadan found her again, a small red object in his hand, he'd pressed it into her palm and told her to take it to Tristram. _

_"Take it yourself," she countered, but she knew that the Romans would question a male much more than a female. _

_"No," Din said simply. "He needs to learn to live without me at his side." He paused for a long moment, rubbing at his stomach as if it ached. "And I need to do the same. People...people cannot always be what we want them to be, and he needs to realize that. He needs to get stronger." _

_It had taken the better part of four hours to slip past the guards and into the barracks, and it took the rest of whatever willpower she'd left since she watched Galahad walk away with the Romans to not find the boy and leave with him._

The next night, Dinadan repeated the process, never bringing more than one apple and always the same color and size. Lykopis slipped past the wall easily enough, as she had grown accustomed, and waited until nightfall.

Tristram was awake, sitting up against a wall just inside the barracks. It was a staging room, where they kept their weapons and most of the equipment the Romans allowed. Lykopis slipped past him, not seeing him in the dark and quiet.

"Does he live?" The question came firm and strong. Lykopis flinched, spinning around and drawing the hood up over her face.

"Does who live?" She asked.

"You know who."

"No," she said after a pause. "No, I don't."

"Then how do you know what this means?" He asked, pointing to the apple she held. She paused, tongue frozen in her mouth. Dinadan had reasons she trusted to keep his silence. They all needed to learn to live on their own. Relying on a man in the woods to keep him safe would only make him less likely to survive this.

"I've watched boys starve before eating the meat the Romans put in front of them." She said simply, shrugging a shoulder. "I thought that if it came from someone else, you'd be willing to eat."

Lykopis swallowed around the lie. It sat sour in her mouth. She'd never developed the taste for the lie, never grew accustomed to the acidic burn that it left behind on the tongue. She tossed him the apple, watching closely as he caught it and studied it a long moment.

"You lie," Tristram said, voice dark. "Tell him to leave. I do not want his charity."

"Don't be ungrateful," she snapped. His dark eyes caught her, and she knew that she'd walked into his snare as mindlessly as a hare on the run. She stood there a long moment watching the young man, who looked down at the apple now like it held the meaning to life. He sighed deeply, took a bite, and chewed it with a slow reverence.

"Thank you," he said after a short time, half of the apple gone. She nodded, sighing and sinking down across from him in the small staging area. "I understand."

"You understand what?" She asked, glaring at him through the eyes of the wolf.

"He can't be here. The Romans would have taken him. So, he picked you up along the way." Tristram shrugged one shoulder. "He's very charismatic. I understand why you're with him." He paused a moment, studying what he could see of her through the dark. "Not his usual type though."

Lykopis sat quietly for a long moment before shaking her head and fighting off the laugh that came as she made sense of his statement.

"I've seen his type," she muttered. "Painted and with more coin than he can manage. I picked him up. Roman did his work well outside your village. He'd have died, bled out."

"He should have done as he was told," Tristram said firmly, but there was none of the anger that she'd heard in his voice before. "He'd have done better here than I."

"You're not making any friends collapsing on the run," she said easily. "And you're not doing yourself any favors by starving yourself."

"I'm not-"

"He saw it in you the first time he saw you," she cut him off. "You can't...you can't let anyone know that we're here watching."

"Rome would take him and put you to slavery or worse," Tristram said simply. "I am good at keeping secrets."

"Good," Lykopis said, pushing herself to stand.

"If he didn't bring you, why are you here?" Tristram asked as she went for the door. She stood there a moment, looking out at the moon as it slowly started to sink into that endless darkness that enshrouded everything in the small hours of the morning.

"I am here to serve as a reminder to someone that was taken," she said at last. "I'm to assure that he lives and then I'm going to make sure he knows who he is despite what Rome has made of him."

"He's out there with you though," Tristram said, and something in him settled. "He's good to have in a bad situation. He'll take care of you." Lykopis laughed at the young man.

"We're too busy making sure you don't starve and none of the rest of the flock do anything stupid," she said easily. "There's not much time to worry about anything or anyone else." She slipped through the door in that moment, gone to the night time and the silence. She could feel his eyes on her as she slipped into the darkness.

**Part Three: Gawain - Responsibility**

Gawain had been watching as another recruit tossed Galahad some five feet in the sand pit, sending him sprawling once more. The boy hadn't faired well when they'd paired them off, and there was only so much Gawain could do while he was dealing with his own opponent.

He heaved as a knee collided with his abdomen, doubling him over and spattering the sand with bloody spittle. He groaned and gripped the foot, rolling and sending his opponent-Kay, another older Sarmatian-to the ground.

He let Galahad slip from his line of view and turned his attention back to Kay. The dark haired boy was difficult to grapple with, strong and agile, but he wasn't unbeatable. Gawain tackled him hard, pinning his arm behind him and drawing it back until the other boy shouted surrender.

Again, those eyes found Galahad, who was standing, blood dripping from his lip down off of his chin. The boy was still fierce faced as he tackled his opponent, sending him to the ground and laying into his rib cage with balled fists.

"That's it," he muttered.

"What's it?" Kay asked him, following his line of sight for only a moment. "Let the boy be," he said. "He'll survive or he won't. There's no sense in distracting yourself over him."

"I'll decide what's worth my distraction," Gawain said, and Kay let the subject drop easily. He always did, and for that Gawain was constantly grateful. "Besides, if I wasn't distracted, you'd be forever cleaning the latrine trenches after meals."

"Seems fair we split it," Kay said with a chuckle, clapping him on the shoulder as the Romans called them in for weapons training. They'd been using the staff for the better part of the past two weeks, and Gawain quietly hoped for Galahad that they stayed on the bladeless weapon for a little while longer.

It wasn't that the boy couldn't use a staff as well as he used his fists; it was just that he used neither well enough to keep his skin intact without sharp edges. He wasn't disappointed that day, as they paired up yet again to train.

That night, as Gawain and Galahad settled into their bunks, side by side, he wondered at the quiet resilience in the boy. There hadn't been a day when he'd not bled, when he'd not been thrown or when he'd not bruised, and yet still, each morning, he woke and drug himself from bed. Of course-Gawain smiled up at the ceiling-he'd moaned about the early wake up call every morning since they'd arrived.

He sighed and rolled over, trying to distance his mind from the boy. It didn't help much. That night, they'd spent most of the evening taking turns crowding over their bowls and eating. Several of the older boys-Gawain and Kay had a plan for them-had taken to stealing food from the younger ones, and Galahad, being one of the youngest, had taken it the hardest. Gawain had convinced Kay to let the boy eat between them, and so the problem had lessened significantly.

Still, he had to wonder at the desire in his belly to protect the kid. He'd never had a younger brother or sister. Hell, he'd never even taken care of the dogs that the village children seemed to orbit around. So then why, the question rankled him, did he feel the need to defend a boy he didn't know?

Shaking his head again, he forced his eyes closed and into sleep.

The Roman call to arms came entirely too early the next morning, and he nearly growled when Galahad started whining about the early hour. Instead, he bit the inside of his lip, rubbed his hands through his slowly growing hair, and patted the kid on the shoulder.

Wrestling came and went. Arms training came and went. The Run-because it wasn't just a run, when it was up and down the length of the visible Wall-came and went. Mealtime came and went.

He settled down into his bunk one more time, just like all of the other times. The days had become a monotony of the same thing, over and over again. Something itched at the back of his mind though, something that was stinging but dull. He couldn't place it except for the vague feeling that something had been different. Something, during the Run, had changed.

His brain itched during the night and again throughout the entire Run until late in the evening. Again and again, day after day, something new scratched there, just on the surface. The itch was easy to find when he was looking for it. Eyes in the woods, watching, waiting, and in an instant, he believed the Romans. Woads. He couldn't see them, but he could feel them.

A danger. A shiver in his spine.

He'd taken to lingering at the back of the run, keeping Galahad well in front of him and carrying the wooden axe that the Romans had given him at his hip. It was lighter than his old one, but they didn't allow any weapons from their previous lives beyond the Wall.

He stood along the path they'd worn in the grass, hands on his hips panting under the pretense of catching his breath as his eyes swept the treeline, trying to find the eyes that made him itch.

"Gawain!" Galahad's voice startled him from his study. "Gawain, come on. It's not that far," he said simply, pointing over his shoulder, where the gate had come into view. With a smile, he dropped his hands and started running again, the kid falling in step behind him. He was shorter, had to take more steps to keep up with Gawain's stride, but Galahad kept at it.

He lay down to sleep on his cot that night, eyes wide and staring at Galahad, as he slept soundly on the cot next to him. That, he mused, as sleep eluded him, that was why.

**Part Four: Bors and Dagonet - Pride and Honor**

Lykopis had taken to walking through the little village during the daytime. There was little they could do as she came and went as long as she brought in furs or game to trade with the locals. Yesterday, she hadn't had enough to entice the doors open. Today, she had two days of foraging and hunting strapped to her back, an apple hidden in a pocket of the cloak she wore.

It had been weeks since she'd seen Bors, and she was more than a little nervous that he'd been put to his death on their march. Now, well past the gates and free of all but the apple and some extra coin, she roamed through the settlement, sharp eyes catching and skittering.

Bors wasn't a quiet man though, and she heard him long before she saw him.

Collared and bound at both feet, he was left in an arena of sand and dirt, bound to a large pole driven deep into the ground. He'd been given enough of a lead to nearly reach the end of their imposed prison.

She leaned against the railing, watching him as he sat against the post. He was slighter than she remembered him, physically and somehow less.

"Stay away, miss," a young man said to her, and she turned, looking him up and down. "That's not a man in there."

"Looks to be a man," she said easily, turning back toward him and leaning against the railing again. Something sparked in Bors the some forty feet away, and she smirked out at him as his head inclined just enough to catch her eyes.

"He's being punished. He's killed three of the Romans." She turned away from the young man and eyed the older that was cautioning her away from the arena.

"He's to kill me with feet and throat wrapped up?" She asked. "Go see to your work. Let me worry about my own life." The man started slightly before nodding and leaving her alone, standing at the edge of the settlement with the familiar young man sitting across the arena from her.

"Big words, little girl," he said, rising to his feet, legs shaking far more than they should have been for such a gesture.

"Big man for such little words," she countered, eyeing him. "I saw you across the sea. You fought awful hard to keep yourself from the Romans. Now you're just sitting here?"

"Ey!" He shouted, coming to the edge of his rope, a few feet away from her. Lykopis stood her ground, letting him get close enough to study her face. "You don't know nothing," he said, spittle flying from his mouth.

"I know what I saw," she said easily. "I know they took one of you from that village. One." She cocked an eyebrow. "How many hid in their homes while you distracted the Romans?" He fell silent, studying her with a level head.

"Observant, ain't ya?" He asked, relaxing his posture.

"What I can't figure out," she said. "Is why you'd work so hard to defend people then but leave all these boys without anyone to watch their backs."

"Ey, I did my share. Let'em watch themselves." Lykopis had to admit, staring down the bull of a man, that he probably had. "B'sides, Romans are so busy with me, they leave the little ones alone."

"Except they don't," Lykopis said easily. She sighed, fishing through the pocket on her cloak to find an extra bun she'd traded for in the market. Bor's eyes flickered over it for a moment before he looked back to her. "They die for your pride. The Romans bested you once on that field. Every day you spend here, they best you again. Don't let them. Don't lay here and die like a dog."

"What's it matter to you?" Bors asked. "Why are you here?"

"My brother," she said simply. "And the rest of you don't deserve what you're going to be getting."

"He old enough to look after 'imself?" Bors asked, and Lykopis just stared at him. She wouldn't be asking if he was. "Gimme a name n'I'll see the kid lives if I can," he said. Lykopis nodded, tossing him the bun and turning to walk away.

"Need a name, girl!" Bors shouted after her, and she turned, looking just over her shoulder before pulling the hood up over her head and letting him catch site of the wolf's head.

"I don't need anyone to protect him out there. I've got that," she said easily. "What I need is someone in here that knows I'm out there, that knows not to let the others kill me." She dropped the hood back down.

"Don't skin the wolves," he said easily. "Got it." She nodded and continued into the light of day.

It was two weeks and several smuggled meals later when Bors was released from his prison. He did as silently promised, posturing and shouting, drawing attention but never so much to see him gone again. They'd moved onto the sword, and watching from as close as she dared as often as she dared made her nervous.

Bors was paired with a tall, quiet boy, more muscle than brain, if her assessment was anything to go by. He dropped the sword each time it was placed in his hand. He took a beating and stayed silent. The romans had flogged him and cut him, and still he didn't learn, dropping the blade each time it was laid in his hands.

Finally, a week into the sword, Bors snapped.

"Eh, dog," he said easily, holding the blade out threateningly in front of him, circling around the silent young man. "You want to die?" He asked.

"No," the quiet boy said, voice gravelled.

"Then pick up your sword!" Bors shouted. The Romans ranged around them. Normally, they'd break up an altercation between their recruits, but the bigger man was at the end of their experience.

"No," he said just as quietly, just as strong.

"Because you think they're making you kill with it?" Bors asked, turning wide and holding his arms out wide. "You think you're killing for Romans? You kill for them!" He said, pointing the blade at a pair of smaller boys.

"I won't kill for anyone," the taller boy said firmly, and Bors grunted at him.

"Then you die; you want to die, dog?" He asked, brandishing the blade at him again.

"My name isn't dog," the taller boy said, dropping his knees slightly as Bors paced around him.

"Sure it is," Bors pushed. "You can't defend yourself if you don't pick up that sword. Dogs die on the field. Get ready to be a dog." He kept pacing, angry and posturing. "You ready to die, 'cause I'll do you a favor now!" He swung the sword around his head, form terrible but the threat real.

"I am not a dog," the taller boy shouted, dropping to his knees as Bors brought the blunt side of the short sword down on the back of his knee.

"You're already on the ground!" Bors shouted, swinging the blade around his head again. The bigger boy's head bowed, and in an instant, the blade was in his hand. He howled, coming up and spinning to meet Bors's sword as it came down.

The Romans stood, wide eyed and silent as the last half of Bors's sword buried deep in the sand. The taller boy stood, blade in hand, chest heaving after the shout he'd let loose as he'd spun, striking heavily and severing the blade.

"The dog has teeth," Bors chided, and the taller boy straightened, his grip on the blade strengthening. "What's your name, boy?" He asked.

"Dagonet," the taller answered.

"Dagonet!" Bors shouted, spinning wide again, prowling the arena like he owned it, coming to rest just in front of a young woman with dark hair and eyes. The Romans allowed the locals to watch the young ones practice, and she'd been a regular, attracted to what, they didn't care. "Dagonet." He told the young woman again. Quickly, she nodded, turned on her heel and left the practice staging.

Out in the wood, Lykopis dropped her cloak over a branch, shaking out her arms and pulling the claws back onto her hand as Dinadan handed them to her. "Five," she said simply, and he sighed, hanging his head in his hands.

"Are we collecting sheep, Lykopis?" He asked, and she shook her head.

"Another wolf," she said simply as she pulled her bow back across her shoulders.


	5. Chapter 5

AN: Well, I hope you all enjoyed the last chapter. This one is going to skip a bit into the future. I don't want this to run over ten chapters, and unfortunately, this is shaping up to be a bit longer than that, mostly because of the second story line that I'm going to start working into this chapter. I wanted Lykopis to be something that her background didn't allow for. I really needed a character that was...hard and knowing, watching, worldly. Lykopis is hard but she lacks a lot of experience with people that I need later so...

You get the second and probably last OC for this piece in this chapter. Her story was originally going to be a "sequel" but I thought I'd start working in the pieces now and just make it one big web of subplot.

**Chapter Five: The Death of Memory**

**Warnings: Strong language, death, mentioned lewdity. **

The Romans came through their village in the night, waking everyone with shouts and fire. Children cried as they were torn from their parents, men took up what arms they had, mostly spades or shovels. They were a farming tribe.

She'd been awake, watching her little sister sleeping when the first cries started. Harsh and keening, they'd woken a fear in her that was deeper than anything she'd ever felt.

"Brazi, wake up," she whispered, shaking her brother awake and pushing their sister into his arms. "Go, take her to mother, and hide," she slipped out the front door of their home, light eyes taking in the torches that lit bronze shields and made long Roman faces seem like memories from a nightmare.

"Zarana!" A familiar voice cut through the noise, and she turned, finding her friend there, eyes wide with horror. "The Romans come, Zarana. They took my brother; they took Kisib." Zarana set the smaller woman wrap herself around her chest, shushing her as she cried. "They killed adda," she whispered.

"Shhh," Zarana continued to coax her into silence, pulling her back into the home. "In the back. "My ana is there, she will take you."

"Where are you going?" She asked, even as she walked further back into the home. "Zarana, come with me."

"I've got to find someone," she said, dismissing the thought. "I've got to-"

A sharp cry sounded outside, and a roar took up, one that was as familiar as her own name. The war cry of her people took up, and in a moment, she new every fear that had ever been known.

Her people were an old people, most bent with age with sons and daughters too young to know real warfare. The Romans that rode them down were strong, able bodied, and single minded in their wrath.

She froze in the door, the scenes before her eyes passing almost as if unseen. Who could see, even if they'd eyes? Old blood was spilled and young blood was stolen, chained together, some too young to even stand, the children were forced out of the village of the dead.

"Girl!" A voice shouted at her, and she wasn't sure when she'd started hearing again. "Out of there, come now!" He shouted again, sword in his hand, face spattered with blood. His other hand gripped hard at her bicep, pulling her forward, where she stumbled in the dirt, collapsing at his feet. Another went into the home, shouting something that she simply couldn't hear.

He reappeared in a moment, face twisted in anger. "There's someone in a cellar. They refuse to come out." That caught in her mind. Good, she thought. They'd be safe in the cellar.

"Burn them out," a man said from behind her, and she turned, something hard and unyielding growing in her like a great wave.

"No!" She screamed, launching herself at the man, who still wore his high maned helmet, a long sword shining in his hand decorated with gems and blood. She'd managed to scrape her nails down one side of his face, over an eye and down the cheek before he pushed her back, hard into the dirt, a boot against her chest.

"Burn it!" He shouted, one hand covering his ruined eye as he screamed. "Burn it all!"

"No!" She shouted again, trying to dislodge the foot from her chest, but the pressure made it hard to breath, and he was a heavy man that glared down at her out of one eye.

"You'll watch them die, girl," he said, pressing harder. Breath was lost to her, and her vision spotted as a torch was thrown into the old, wooden home. It caught quickly, burning up and crackling. Zarana tried to pretend that the high screams were from the wood, the blankets inside, anything but what she knew was the truth.

She lay there, on the ground, limp and breathing in the smoke of the bodies of her family as the Roman's foot came off of her chest. Someone was speaking to the three men around her, someone with a firm voice, demanding respect and obedience.

As the keening cries stopped, she closed her eyes against all else that might come.

"This dark night, this dark night," she sang weakly, voice thick with the smoke and choked with tears. The dirge of her family was heavy in her mind. Who would sing them all to the other land? "With fire and sleet and candlelight. If from here away you've passed, may this song be your very last. If gone you be from family, I bid your soul be wise and free." The words caught in her throat, thick with tears. She couldn't make the next lines come, anger and fear at herself and for herself welling up inside her chest. If she couldn't sing them away then would their souls walk the earth forever, as the old ones said?

"What's it matter?" The voice of the man with the ruined eye shouted, shaking her from that place beyond recognition. "Kill the bitch and let it be the end."

"My wife's asked for a new present from the savage lands," another said, the one who's voice left no argument. "I'll give her the pretty and be done with it. Besides, the bitch is cold enough when I'm home. Maybe a toy will warm her frozen cunt. Tie her up."

The words were heard, but they meant nothing to her as she was bound, hands and feet and forced to walk with the children behind the Roman horses. A few, barely old enough to walk, stumbled and fell time and time again before Zarana turned, crouched low and let one climb onto her back and another up through her arms.

It did not matter that her bare feet bled or that the added weight of a child in her arms caused the ropes to cut her wrists deeply. The world held no pain, no pain true enough to touch her again.

**-The Death of Memory-**

Lykopis and Dinadan had grown comfortable in the woods on their side of Hadrian's Wall in the last five years. They'd separated for the most part, working each other's nerves too raw when they were too often together. Instead of huddling around the same fire at night, they went their own ways.

Dinadan, Lykopis was sure, kept his quiet study of the gate, waiting for the day that the young knights would once again ride out as they'd started doing almost a year into their silent vigil.

As for herself, Lykopis enjoyed the movement and freedom that Britannia allowed. There were few people in the wood, and that suited her just fine, but lately, she'd seen shadows. Once, she was sure she'd seen blue skin and old, dark eyes staring at her, but in a shake of her head, it was gone.

She'd spent fewer and fewer days inside of the settlement on the other side of the wall. There were too many people that had started to recognize her, too many voices asking her questions about where she lived or her profession. So, she'd taken to crossing over only when was necessary.

The weapons she'd had made still sat heavy in the bottom of her pack, and she'd be a liar if she said that she'd not tried them all on for size once or twice over the years. Bors's blades were the most like her own claws, but there was something off about them, the blades wrapping around well past her elbows.

The bow she took to every morning. She'd managed to draw the string back now, but she couldn't hold it well enough to use. Which was good, because Galahad was getting bigger. In another few years, he'd be much stronger than she. The Romans had long ago allowed them their own weapons, and more than once, she'd thought about leaving them in the barracks.

She needed new clothing anyway, and she'd more than enough to trade. As the sun sank down below the horizon, she heard the sharp shout of Dinadan somewhere in the woods. She gave him a long howl back. They'd taken up the ritual when they first separated, letting each other know that they were well at the end of day. Tomorrow, she decided, she'd find him and see if he needed anything from the other side of the wall. She had gone long enough without seeing her brother well.

Dinadan, it turned out, needed anything she'd be willing to carry. His flint had long ago gotten dangerously useless and he'd worn his clothes nearly through in places. The cold of the winter would be crippling in another two months, but for now, the sweet summer air was refreshing.

"And parchment," he added at last, eyeing Lykopis with a look that was nearly guilt ridden. "Thick parchment."

"For fire?" She asked uneasily. What other use could the man have for parchment paper.

"Yes, it burns better with the morning dew," he said easily, and Lykopis eyed him a long moment before nodding. If he wanted to waste his coins on parchment, then so be it. She'd have to teach him how to wrap his firewood against the rain another time.

The settlement was much like it had been the last time she'd been there. The bulk of the Romans had left long ago, leaving Arthur Castus in charge of the young Sarmatian Knights which nearly everyone expected to die quickly.

They'd been resilient, more than anyone had thought, even Lykopis, who had to admit that she'd not had to intervene to save any of her lives too often, and even when she had, they'd have probably lived to tell the tale of another scar.

She smiled at the young woman who bought her furs, filling her coin purse and pointing her in the direction she needed for Dinadan's clothing. The young man had grown, now nearly a foot taller than Lykopis and twice as broad. He was a powerful thing, she had to admit, and he'd taught her a lot more than she'd ever thought he could.

Her throat ached from the use by the time she'd filled her pack with Dinadan's and her clothing. His new flint was being difficult. She'd been through two different merchants and was still empty handed. The pack was heavy on her shoulder, and as she passed by the barracks, the Knights long ago having abandoned them for rooms elsewhere, she eyed it easily. Where at first there had been nearly forty young ones brought to the wall, the last time they'd come back, they'd been down to fifteen. Now, they all had their own storage areas in the staging room, and she'd gone through them often enough in the past to be able to pick out whose was whose.

Quickly, she slipped in, leaving the bow, axes and Bors's special daggers where they belonged before slipping out again, a stolen flint from Bors's trunk in her bag. He'd have another somewhere, if his shouting about losing things was anything to go by.

The sun sank low over the wall, and for a moment, she debated just leaving, slipping back through the gates and simply going back into what had become her reality. Laughter from the stables caught her attention, and she slipped around the back, climbing the ladder in the back and settling down into the hayloft.

This had long ago become her favorite place in the settlement. Below, the Knights had gathered, some cleaning weapons while others just sat, basking in the warm glow of a small fire.

"What about you, Gawain?" One of the young men asked, and Lykopis's ears burned at the familiar name.

"Ah," he murmured, voice deeper than it had been that time she'd listened to him whisper promises into the ear of a young woman. "I'll return home. There's a beautiful girl waiting for me there." Lykopis smiled up into the ceiling.

It had been years since she'd seen Izi, but the girl's bright green eyes and red hair stuck in her memory. She'd thought about her once or twice over the past few years, wondering if the girl had kept her promise.

"Can't be all that beautiful if she's waiting for you," one of them said, and the rest laughed. Lykopis knew that voice as well. She'd grown accustomed to hearing it, as the First Knight liked to hear himself speak more often than not. Why Arthur had chosen Lancelot as his First Knight, Lykopis could not know.

"Oh, but she was," Gawain answered, and his voice had gone elsewhere, somewhere in his memory. "Red haired and bright eyed."

"What was her name?" Dagonet asked quietly. His voice had dropped during the last five years, becoming some impossibly deep thing that could probably lull her into sleep if she'd let it.

"I...I cannot remember," he said, and the dreamy quality of his voice was gone. Now, when she rolled over on the rafter to look down at him, his head was bent low and he was staring down at his hands.

"I can't remember me mums name either," one of the others said, and like that, they were off onto a conversation she didn't care to hear. She'd nearly fallen asleep when something tapped her boot, startling her enough that she sent a bit of hay falling down into one of the stalls.

"You should not be here," Tristram said, sitting against the wall on her beam. "You will only confuse them."

"You've gotten quiet over the years," she murmured so only his ears would catch it.

"It is my job," he said simply. "I'm the scout. I ride out on either side of the wall to assure that no one is where they shouldn't be." And didn't it make sense in that moment?

"Find him yet?" She asked, and he only shook his head.

"He does not want to be found," Tristram answered easily. Lykopis nodded her agreement before looking back down below. "They do well."

"They do," she agreed.

"I could watch him for you, if you told me who you looked for each time you slip past the wall," he offered. She just shook her head, glancing at him through the wolf's eyes. "It is frightening to your enemies?" He asked, and she knew what he was talking about without having to ask.

"It might be," she said. "If I had enemies I could face."

"You do," Tristram answered, voice louder than was comfortable to her. "You've not seen them?"

"Nothing I can kill," she answered simply.

"Then they will kill you," he told her, anger in his voice that she couldn't place. "Dinadan has not seen them either?"

"If you told me who-"

"The Woads," he answered quickly. "Blue painted Britons. They've started assaulting the Wall. They used to just stay on the one side, but they've been crossing in the night, lingering too close in the day."

"Blue?" She asked, the shadow of blue skin echoing in her mind.

"The woad ink," he said.

"I'll warn Dinadan," she said firmly, and he nodded, letting his head fall back against the wall. From a pocket, he pulled a green apple, one that was startlingly familiar.

"You're still getting those?" she asked.

"One is left in my trunk every morning," he said, shrugging one shoulder. "I thought you..." He sighed into the hayloft. "Tell him to stop. It is not worth the trouble."

"You know as well as I do that if he has anything set in his mind, nothing I say will change his mind."

"Do I?" Tristram asked staring at her then, face a sheet of impassive ice, so far away from her that she wasn't sure he was actually sitting there. "I cannot..." He swallowed thickly. "I cannot remember his face."

Lykopis sat there a long while, silently contemplating the statement. Finally, she stretched along the rafter and stood. "You're not missing much." She smiled at him, laying a hand on his shoulder for a brief moment until he flinched away from her palm. "He's as ugly as ever." The scout snorted through his nose and bit his lip, trying to hide the smile there.

"Come back tomorrow?" He asked as she slipped through the window.

"Mayhap," Lykopis said easily. It was relaxing, talking to someone that wasn't Dinadan.

The next night was much the same. The Knights relaxed down in the stables, going about their own business. She lay on the same rafter, waiting for the tattoo'd man to appear through the window.

"What of your families?" She heard a voice from below her and she turned, laying on her belly on the rafter. Below her, Tristram sat, his dark eyes staring vaguely up into the ceiling. There was a quirk at the corner of his mouth that begged trouble.

She listened as Lancelot spoke of a sister so brave and fierce that Lykopis almost wanted to meet the girl. Bors had no siblings, but parents who he thought would be dead by the time he returned to them. Gawain had a brother, one that would certainly have been taken by Rome by now. Dagonet remained quiet, setting his jaw and staring into the firelight. Finally, Galahad spoke, and if Lykopis could have been more on edge against the rafter, she might have never moved again.

"I'd a mother and father when I left," he said simply. "A sister, I think. Probably just a village girl. I cannot remember." He scrunched his nose and thought on it a moment longer. "All I can remember of my mother is hair as dark as night without the stars. My father raised me."

Above, on the rafter, Lykopis cringed. Her mother had been that darkness, that deep beauty. Their father a quiet strength. She listened for several minutes after he stopped speaking, trying to convince herself that he'd open his mouth and speak again. Her vision was blurred as she slipped out the window into the darkness.

She did not return to Hadrian's wall for a year.

**-The Death of Memory-**

She couldn't remember her real name anymore. They just called her Zar, and she only knew that because one of the children had survived and been sold as a house slave to one of the wealthier Roman families. He occasionally would come to see her, through the bars of her cage, and speak to her in a hushed voice.

He never stayed long; Zar couldn't blame him.

She wasn't the most talkative anymore. She remembered being prowled around by a woman with eyes sharp like one of the birds of prey that hunted on the steppes. She'd had a soft frame but a quick tongue and a quicker crop. Zar had taken many beatings then.

The scars were long covered by new ones though.

They'd washed her and perfumed her and ripped through her hair until it shone like the night. A paint had been laid along her eyes and lips, giving her such a foreign look when she passed polished metal that she didn't recognize herself.

Finally, they'd sat her in a corner, ordered her to attend the hawk-eyed woman, and do as she willed without question. The man with power in his voice had told his wife that she had sang when she'd been taken from her family. He did not mention the fire. He did not speak of the blood.

The woman had demanded her to sing, but the words would not come. She'd been angry with the defiance, and had beaten Zar for the better part of a month. Then, broken and bleeding and with a face too bruised and misshapen from swelling, had declared her unfit to be a lady of the Mistress of the house.

The bruising and swelling would heal, but the rest... For her defiance she'd been...well...she'd been-

"Zar, The Lark!" A voice shouted, loud and confident. A roar took up in her ears as she pulled herself from the cold stone ground. The iron bars were pulled to either side and she stepped out of the shadow, the cold metal handle of a sica in her hand, the soft leather strapping of her parma in the other.

The world was bright then, too bright for a time, with the high sun reflecting off of the sand and the smooth stone. She walked forward, bare feet burning in the sand. They'd offered her sandals for her victories, but she'd not worn them. She'd left her home with naked feet, and those same feet would carry her back.

She'd taken the manicae and the galea, the parma and the ocrea. They were necessary.

They kept her alive.

They were the tools of her life, and the weapons that might earn her freedom.

She raised the wickedly curved sica above her head, the shouting falling to silence. "Rus!" She shouted, and the crowd echoed back to her the second half of the name.

"Rus!" They screamed, and her world was once again someone else's to manipulate. Someone else's to own. A set of bars rose from the other side of the wide open arena, and out stepped another woman, this one new, untried if the way she gripped the scutum was any indication.

The scutum was too big, too heavy of a shield for a woman, and it left a gladiatorix unable to move freely. She looked down at her own, smaller parma, and felt the corners of her mouth lift.

Another dead. Another buried.

Little did it matter anymore.

She turned away from the blood settling in the dust. "This dark night, this dark night..." She sang, voice clean and clear, singing away another soul into the afterlife.

**-Death of Memory-**

It was spring when she saw the wall again, and the Knights were riding out, pushing their horses hard, all another year older, all easily reconciled with the image of them she had in their mind, even from a distance. Now, they numbered twelve.

She'd been trying to find Dinadan for the better part of a week when she thought he'd found her. An arrow lodged deeply into the tree beside her head as she slept, startling her awake and upward, the claws in her hand pulled tight and ready.

In front of her, an old man stood, bow in blue stained hands. "Roman?" The man asked with one word. Lykopis shook her head, reaching up behind her to draw the hood down over her face and eyes. Over the last year, she'd grown more comfortable wearing the mask of another creature than her own face. It might have come from her own inability to look at her own reflection.

"No," she said, still low in a crouch. "I watch for my brother to return from Roman slavery." She said, hoping that the admission would earn her her life. A bow from this distance would be much more deadly than her claws. Her own bow was unstrung, leaning against the trunk of the tree at her back.

"The last to say that gave up long ago," he said.

"Where is Dinadan?" She asked. "I can't find him, and he wouldn't have left."

"Din no longer waits for the Sarmatians at the wall," the man said. He slowly lowered his bow, old eyes softening with a slow realization. "He did not lie."

"Where is he?" She asked again.

"Come," was his answer, and she followed him without question. The Woads had grown bold in the year she was away. Their village amongst the trees hadn't been there before, but now some forty of them lived and breathed and slept just there, not far from where she herself had once called her home for several years.

They watched her as the older man lead her through them, but he spoke in a language she couldn't understand. They deferred to his word quickly. It set her on edge. He shouted something ahead to another, who nodded and ran off.

"Din was with us for nearly a change of season," the old man said to her. "Why did you not look for him sooner?"

"I left," she said, the words acid on her tongue. "I was...I had forgotten why I was here." The man turned to her then.

"And why are you here?" He asked her, and the weight of his voice asked for more than an answer. He asked for her soul then, in that one statement.

"To remind them of who they were before," she said. "To remind them that they are not completely of the Romans."

"That will be difficult," he said, but the way he looked at her settled her in that moment. He'd weighed her in that question, and somehow, she'd come up heavier than he expected. "The Sarmatians that come here are not so different than my people. They fight for a land that they want back."

"They fight for the Romans," Lykopis said. "Where is Dinadan?"

"He was comfortable here," the older man said. "He stayed here for a time. He left one month ago, back south."

"He was watching for Tristram," Lykopis said. Dinadan had been gone from the wall on his own will for an entire season only to disappear south. "Why would he leave?"

"Why did you leave?" He asked, turning toward her, voice sharp. "He forgot who he was, alone in the wood. It is a strange thing, the change in man when he is alone."

"Let him stay gone then," she said. "I'll wait at the wall." She turned from the old man, forgetting for a moment that she'd been held at the point of an arrow.

"Why do you wait at all?" He called after her. "Dinadan asked that I remind you that you swore to him." She paused, turning toward him and holding up her hand, letting the claw fall away, exposing the contrast of the scar on her palm.

"Blood is a powerful thing to swear by," she said simply, and the old man nodded.

"My name is Merlin, she-wolf," he said then, drawing a dagger across his own palm. "And I swear that if you give me one promise, I nor any of mine shall interfere with you again. My word is better than the boy's. I know the power of old words."

She turned toward him, watching as the blood ran down his palm, dripping to the ground below. "What promise?" She asked.

"Your life for another, should it be required." He said firmly. "One life that I name later. Just one, and only if it is necessary." Lykopis watched him a moment.

"One life if I can save it," she murmured. What did one more life matter?

"One," Merlin repeated. He looked sharply at her before tossing the dagger her held through the air to her. She caught it with deft fingers and pressed it against the scar on her palm, cutting enough to draw blood and run the length of the scar.

"One life. You give me a name, and I will defend that one life with my own, when the time comes. One more will hardly make a difference," she said, turning from him again, dropping the dagger to the ground. No one stopped her as she walked away, scowling at the stinging in her palm, not nearly as much as the stinging in her chest.

Blood, perhaps it wasn't such a powerful thing, afterall.

-The Death of Memory-

She'd been watching for the better part of a week when she noticed. How she didn't right away was laughable.

Bors had his daggers on either side of his hip, flashing them whenever he felt the need. Gawain's old axes were gone and replaced with the new. Galahad was the only of the three not to use his, but, she knew, he was still too small to draw back the bow. Even in the year she'd been gone, he'd grown, just not enough to draw back the string and let loose an arrow.

She'd gotten greedy though, in the last week, and spent far too much time inside of the Wall for her own good. The Knights didn't stay in the stables at night any longer, and she was quietly grateful. There was pain in the rafters, and she didn't want to lay amongst them any longer.

Instead, she sat in the tavern, one leg tossed haphazardly across the arm of her chair, the other cradling a tankard of mead so that her hands were free. A few of the Romans came and went from a table across the way, leaving her alone in her dark corner.

She could hear and see anything she liked from there, including the table only a short way off where her brother sat, sipping at a tankard between drinks of water. With each drink, his face turned stoic, the alcohol burning more than he wanted to let on to the older boys. He was the youngest among them, and she knew that without Gawain and herself watching his back on the battlefields, he'd have died long ago.

"Dag!" Bors shouted, waving at the big man as he entered the tavern, a smile on his normally stoic face. He sat beside Bors as though it was where he belonged, and Lykopis wondered at what they would feel like. To be so in tune with another soul that you simply slipped into their space.

She shook the idea from her mind as it sent an uncomfortable shiver down her spine. Lancelot had long ago abandoned them to play at dice with the group of Romans, his charismatic smile making Lykopis sick.

Gawain was tossing knives with Tristram and chatting with one of the younger serving girls, a smile on his face that Lykopis hadn't seen before. She had to admit, as she sat there in the dark, that he was a handsome man with his hair falling clean to his shoulders. The barmaid made a gesture at his hair as he flipped it over a shoulder to keep it from his eyes for his throw.

"Why not cut it?" The maid asked, a smile on her face as she played with one of her own long locks of dark hair. "You're much more feminine with it long." Lykopis glared at the woman as she tugged on one of his curls. Those were not hers to touch, something raged in her mind. Not hers to demand their shoring.

"Would you find me more to your tastes, my lady?" He asked her, and she just giggled with a small frown.

"Oh, perhaps just a trim," the barmaid said, but the thought was lost to them in the next moment as someone screeched with laughter. Lykopis slowly dug through her ruck sack, drawing out a piece of coal and parchment. Scribbling as legibly as she could recall from her lessons as a child, she folded the piece of paper and disappeared from the canteen. She'd had enough of the heavy smell of mead and the sweet smiles of the knights.

**-The Death of Memory-**

Gawain found the piece of parchment the next morning. He'd stumbled into his bed, alone and drunk, and had fallen asleep almost as soon as he'd hit the straw mattress. The parchment had been pressed to his cheek when he woke, itching terribly.

_Her name is Izi. Keep your promises._

The words were barely legible, and he was sure that one of them was misspelled. Not the name though, because that name, now that he'd seen it again, flashed hot and white across his mind.

Izi.

How he'd forgotten her name was beyond him. It had fit her so well. He sighed, scrubbing a hand through his beard and tossing his hair over his shoulder. He'd made her a promise that day, and he'd all but forgotten it until that parchment.

He'd all but forgotten a lot of things.

He sighed, leveraging himself from his mattress to stumble out into the hallway and to the common latrine that all of the knights shared. Inside, Galahad was passed out, and Gawain watched him closely for breath before handling his business.

Tris walked in a moment later, his sharp eyes flickering over Galahad and then to Gawain. His eyes faltered over Gawain's face, and for a moment, the lion-knight was confused until Tristram's hand came up to point at his own cheek. "Ink," he said simply.

Gawain pawed at his face as he left the latrine to return to his room. It took him a moment to find a polished enough place on his armor to check his reflection in. Surely enough, there on his face, was the word promise.

**-Death of Memory-**

Tristram felt her presence long before he saw her. It had been two weeks since she'd simply been there again, and yet he still hadn't seen her. Rome had come to call again, and he let his mount guide him forward, trusting in the mare to carry him over the terrain without his interference.

Arthur rode at their head, leading them over the road that would lead them west to a Roman villa that had been threatened more and more by bandits of some kind. Tristram didn't much care if they were Woad or Roman. It got him out of the settlement and out into the open air.

Where he could see her, slipping through the treeline. It was a good thing they'd not pushed the horses out of the gate, or she'd have never caught up. They weren't hurried, and he kept their pace slow, lingering at the back.

"Tristram!" Arthur's strong voice called, and he gave up on watching the woman slip through the tree-line and buried his heels into his mare. Arthur always knew when he was there, and for that, Tristram was grateful. He didn't need to announce his presence or ask for his orders.

"I want you to ride ahead. Make sure that you're seen, and double back. I've got a suspicion that the Woads have been following." Tristram nodded despite himself. He knew that there were no Woads in the trees on this day. They'd left them blissfully alone on their path. It was wolves that Arthur should be worried about, not the Woads.

He found Lykopis easily, but he knew that it was because she let him and not really because of his own skill. The wolf was as illusive as anyone else, except for perhaps, Dinandan.

"Following your brother?" Tristram asked easily. It had been the coming and going of many moons since he'd seen her last. "You've been better at staying hidden in the past year."

"I've been better at abandonment this past year," she said simply. It burned in her stomach, but she knew what the scout was asking.

"I hurt you," he said simply. She ignored that for a long moment.

"No," she decided at last. "I hurt myself."

"Which of them?" He asked at length. "I thought it might..."

"He doesn't remember he even has a sister," she said, feeling for a moment the same ire that had burned so fiercely in her stomach that night in the rafters. "He doesn't even..." she shook herself. "It doesn't matter. I was supposed to remind him, when all was over. I forgot my own task." She chided herself quietly as they picked their way through the foliage.

"Arthur sensed you," Tristram told her easily, and she nodded.

"I can't exactly stay silent. Keeping up with horses is tiring work on foot."

"Neither can he?" Tristram asked uneasily. She eyed him for a long moment before sighing.

"I forgot what I was here for," she said quietly. "It took me a long time to remember. He's just forgotten, but it will come back to him, in time. The Woads say that he was alone for too long. They say it changes a man."

"He's with the Woads," Tris said uneasily, but nodded. Lykopis did not have the words to correct him. "I will remind him." He said simply. "If I live, I will remind him." Lykopis nodded, and they fell silent for a long while. Finally, Tristram slipped away into the forest, doubling back no doubt to retrieve his own horse.

She couldn't begrudge him his pain, she knew. Both of them had done things they hadn't planned, without the other by their side. Quietly, she watched her brother. She couldn't miss that his bow was across Tristram's back.

**-The Death of Memory-**

Gawain was crouched low over the form of one of the Sarmatians. His name Lykopis didn't know, but it ached her somewhere deep in her chest that his death caused the lion-knight so much pain.

There had been a moment, just a moment, when she could have turned her back on her brother as he struggled with one of the bandits-Roman men on the run from their own law, not Woads, as it turned out-and ended the life of the man that stole the Sarmatian's.

As it was, her arrow was needed in the neck of the man that pinned her brother, but it had been needed in that same moment, across the field, where Gawain watched his brother in arms be cut down by a short sword.

"Kay!" He shouted at the man's corpse. Lykopis ached as she stood on the edge of the clearing they'd used as a battlefield. Tears lined the man's face as he shouted his name again. Of course, she'd seen the other man time and time again when they rode out, but there was nothing to soften him to her, at least not enough to trust her brother's own life to fate.

"Rome be damned!" He shouted, standing up tall and spinning in a circle, eyes wide and angry, searching for anything to settle his wrath. His eyes locked on her, and she froze as he raised the axe she'd had made for him threateningly. "Come to gloat, Woad?" He shouted at her. "Come to dance over the body of my friend?!"

She stared, wide-eyed, watching Ares incarnate.

"What you yellin' at?" Bors asked, taking a few steps around one of their horses. His sharp eyes caught her shadow, the wolf's head over her own eyes, and he gripped Gawain's arm as it came forward to throw the axe.

"Let me go!" Gawain shouted, thrashing about, and letting his eyes leave his target for a moment. It was moment enough, and when he freed himself form Bors, the woman was gone.

Lykopis felt her heart shuddering in her chest as she fled deeper into the woods. She could hear the Woads around her now, could nearly feel their eyes on her skin as something wet slid down her face. They would not touch her though, that much she knew. The Merlin kept his word. She wondered in that moment, if he was as wise as some claimed. If his knowledge stretched past reality.

She shook off the thought as she scrubbed at her cheek, rubbing in the offending tears until they didn't exist anymore. It was a very long time before she could watch Gawain again as they were sent out on either side of the wall.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six - Tooth and Claw**

Tristan rode out after they burst from the Wall. This was, afterall, their last mission. The last one, and after...well, after he had words for a man he thought he'd known. The Scout had looked for Dinadan for the better part of thirteen years. Somewhere along the last two, he'd lost faith. He'd stopped looking for familiar hair in the tree line. He stopped everything. It was easier when you didn't care.

His horse led him forward, familiar on the road. The Bishop's carriage wasn't far; he had no desire to dig his heels into the beast below him and hurry along. There wasn't much he had to do after anyway. Finding Dinadan would be like finding smoke, if Tristram decided that he was going to push it.

The rest were a half hour's ride behind him, and as his eyes studied the woods he knew that the wolf would be further still behind, no matter how hard she ran. Arthur had pushed them hard past the gate, but since they'd let the horses decide the pace. It would take another hour's easy pace for the woman to catch up, but Tristram knew that she would. She always did.

He'd not spoken to her in years, but her presence was always there, on each mission, a silent crutch that they'd all depended on without even knowing. He'd tried not to, but even he'd gotten tired a few times. Even he'd turned around to see a flash of something grey taking cover in the woods; the bodies he found at his feet would have their throats or stomachs ripped wide by four deep gashes.

No one else seemed to notice.

Except maybe Bors. From time to time the loud mouth would get too far into his drink around the campfire. He'd mutter something about wolves in the trees. A couple times he'd left rations of meat at their camps, saying that the wolves didn't hunt them because he fed them.

Gawain called him superstitious. Galahad said that they'd not seen a wolf on their island since they'd arrived. Dagonet just looked at Bors like he was keeping something from them that the big man couldn't figure out. Lancelot fed on it, adding and embellishing. Lancelot always had more of a mind for superstition than the rest of them.

He stopped his mare, turning in a wide circle on the saddle, guiding the beast around with his legs so that his eyes could sweep both sides. An arrow skimmed a foot away from his ear, and when he turned around, the familiar grey was slipping back into the green. He returned the shot, close enough to where she'd been to let her know that he'd spotted her; she'd not been quick enough.

She was faster than he gave her credit for though. He wouldn't have made the run in such a short time. Of course, she knew the woods better than he did. She lived in them. They were a familiar place, but they weren't his home.

He let his mare pick her way forward, halting at the top of a rise, the bishop's carriage laid out in front of him along the road.

-Tooth and Claw-

_Their numbers had dwindled down to a lonely handful. Galahad. Gawain. Bors. Tristram. Dagonet. Lancelot. Arthur. _

_How many young men had ridden or marched out of Sarmatia? How many had gone to the Wall, and how few would see their homes again? The questions were haunting, especially with the end so close in sight. A few days. _

_They'd received their final orders, meeting some carriage out on the road, guiding it back, and seeing that the occupants lived, they would be granted their freedom. She'd heard it herself, sitting in the tavern, sipping on a tankard of something that had cost her two rabbit skins of gold with the meal she'd eaten. _

_The Knights had all been louder than normal, shouting and posturing-except perhaps Tristram, who couldn't seem to do more than drink, eat his apple and mutter-with the excitement of the promise of home hanging over them. _

_"A fisherman?" Someone laughed, and Lykopis caught the sound easily. Bors was laughing at Galahad, who'd apparently expressed interest in returning to his father's people along the coast. _

_"There's nothing wrong with a life without bloodshed," Galahad said firmly, and not for the first time, Lykopis wondered at when her brother had turned against the Romans so completely. Surely it had been sometime along the way? Surely he hadn't been like that at first? Quietly, she was pleased that he even remembered that their father's people lived off of the sea. _

_"'Cept for the fish," Gawain slurred, burring his mouth into the neck of a bar-wench that sat astride his hips. _

_"Do fish even bleed?" Bors asked, but he laughed away any attempt at an answer. He stood then, muttered something about needing a piss, and disappeared out the back of the tavern, giving Vanora and fierce kiss as he went. Lykopis smiled at that. The Bull had been brought to kneel by the red-headed woman he called his lover. _

_"And you, Tris?" Dagonet asked, keeping the conversation alive as much as he could. _

_"Hm?" Tristram made a little noise in the back of his throat that Lykopis knew existed more than heard. "I have memory to chase." He said simply, earning himself a dark glare from Galahad. _

_"Ghosts, more like," Galahad snorted, shaking his head at the dark haired knight. Lykopis glared at her brother at that. Over the years, there had been factions that had come together and shattered amongst the knights, but never in all of their years had her brother had a soft word for the dark eyed scout. She often wondered if it was because he reminded Galahad of their mother, with his dark hair and eyes set against pale skin. _

_She chuckled at that. Oh, if Anaxilea could hear her thoughts. The Amazon would pale at the idea that she shared any resemblance to the Sarmatians. A smile slipped unbidden onto her lips as she took another sip from the tankard, startled when she saw the bottom. _

_"S'tha smile for?" Bors's voice said, only slightly slurred, from beside her. She glared up at him from over a shoulder. He leaned against one of the pillars watching them as she watched them. His eyes swept over Gawain and Galahad who were far into their drink, Tristram who leaned against a table of his own, Lancelot who was losing at dice, and Dagonet, who had abandoned the table to stand back and watch. _

_"S'tha smile for?" She retorted as his own lips quirked up. He chuckled at her and glanced down, looking at her for a long, uncomfortable minute. _

_"Always figured you were disfigured or sommat' under tha hood," he said easily. She glared at him. "Come now, don't think I wouldn'a picked you outta the crowd in fifteen years?" _

_"No one else has," she answered easily. _

_"Anyone else know ya even exist, girl?" He asked her, turning back toward the knights. _

_"Tristram," she said easily. "I'm glad you grew into your blades," she offered quietly, briefly eyeing the set of twin daggers at his hips. _

_"Was you?" He asked, and smiled when she simply nodded. "Axes and bow s'well, then." He didn't bother asking, so she didn't reply. "Almos' free, girl," he said after a pause. "Almos' free." _

_"Almost," she agreed with a nod. "Stay alive, Bull." _

_"Course," he countered, scratching at the back of his neck with one meaty hand before letting out a grunt. "Still not tellin' which'a 'em you're chasin'?" He asked. When he got no answer, he simply sighed and left her to sit at her table in the shadow. _

_-_Tooth and Claw-

Lykopis watched from the shadow in the trees, uncomfortable with the Woads at her back, despite the word of the Merlin that they'd let her be. She'd killed many of them over the fifteen years, and they made their view of her clear. Two or three times she'd woken to find herself watched, an arrow drawn back and aimed at her chest.

They always backed away though, always listened to the words of an aging man that made a deal she'd yet to make good on.

Now, they were tense around her, almost as on edge as she was, as if they sensed that soon the Sarmatians would leave their land for their own homes. Or perhaps, she smirked out over the flatland, watching as the carriage was drawn along by Roman horses, they were just eager to spill more blood.

"Guinevere," the name was said firmly, and she turned, looking over her shoulder at the old man that stood there.

"What?" She asked.

"A name. Guinevere," he said. "Your life for her life. A promise long made."

"Where is she?"

"Arthur will bring her to you," Merlin said, staring out across the flat land before nodding. The world around her exploded. If the Woads were anything, she thought as she watched them tear into the mounted Romans, they were fighters.

Fighters, not warriors.

Men and women that were willing to bleed for their lives, their homes and their freedom.

The battle cries of the Sarmatians echoed over the flat land, and Lykopis drew her claws tight to her knuckles and loosed the bow from her back. "I hope this girl is worth the death of so many of your men."

"She's worth so much more than the death of my men," Merlin murmured. Lykopis nearly turned back to the old man, but Galahad had found himself off of his horse, in quarters too close for the bow he'd been favoring for the last few years.

A Woad man fell with an arrow in his back, his weapon falling over his shoulder into the mud, not a pace from Galahad. Another arrow-this from Tristram's bow-ended the life of another that had closed in on their youngest.

The skirmish was over before it had even really begun, and Merlin stood a few paces behind her as she faded back into the overgrowth. "Guinevere, and Arthur will bring her to me. You want them alive as much as I want them alive."

"I want my land. I want my daughter safe. If Arthur Castus can make that so, I want him drawing breath," Merlin answered. His remaining Woads faded into nothingness as the carriage drew forward again. Lykopis hissed under her breath as she moved back the way she'd come.

-Tooth and Claw-

They had been into their drink for at least an hour when Lykopis found them. Bors was holding his child, bouncing the infant with more force than was necessary. Gawain, Galahad and Tristram had engaged themselves in knife throwing-and wenching, in the case of the first two. Dagonet was missing, but it wasn't long until he too, joined Bors at the bar.

She had no time for the sadness in the giant's eyes. No time for much of anyone except her brother. It had been years, and when she looked at Galahad, she no longer saw the fierce little boy that stood up to all in his path. No, the Romans had tempered her brother, turned him into a hesitant tool of their bidding.

The fire-haired Vanora sang her song of their homeland, a homeland surely she never had seen but had heard about from her lover's lips. Lykopis could almost picture it, in the back of her mind. The rugged coast. The winds sweeping storms in off of the Black Sea. The rolling, salt-speckled grasses. Their father, tall and proud, with his face half twisted down. Their mother, always dark and black as the sea, never speckled with salt-flecks-

Except she had been, hadn't she? At the end.

Lykopis shook the thought away as Vanora laid a drink in front of her, the latest of her babe's on her hip. "I didn't order this," she said easily, eyeing the cup of mead.

"Drinks are on the house for any of the company of that lot," Vanora said, throwing a hand over her shoulder in the direction of Bors and the rest of them.

"You've got me confused with one of the wenches," Lykopis said easily, though her fist clenched against the fabric of the trousers she always wore into town. A wench. Truly, the things she'd done for her family were-

"I've seen you here often enough, always when they're here. If it's pinin' you're doin' girl, they won't see you tonight, especially if you're hidin' in the corner." Vanora sighed and sat down heavily, resting the child across her knees.

"I promise you, I'm not here to moon after any of the knights," Lykopis said.

"I know," Vanora assured. "But it's best we have your story straight if anyone asks. Bors talks about you when they come back. About a wolf in the trees. He talked to you a while back, and when I asked who you were, all he'd say was that you were a lost wolf."

"The bull has a big mouth," Lykopis said, glaring at the man across the tavern. He hadn't seen her yet, but it didn't matter to her quickly darkening mood. Something was off in the tone of the night. Where was Arthur? Where was the bright eyed commander that would give them all their freedom?

"My lover means well," Vanora said, heaving the child to her chest so that she could rise to tend to a rowdy group of soldiers that had come with the Bishop. "And you have my thanks, for keeping him safe all these years."

"I'm a woman," Lykopis said with an incline of her head. "Nothing more. A woman can't keep men safe when they themselves can't." Vanora eyed her for a long moment with a stern set to her mouth.

"We both know that's lies," the woman finally said before disappearing back to her duties. It didn't take long for the cause of the darkness to her thoughts to rear his head.

Arthur's words were nearly overshadowed by the men around her, but Lykopis could hear her brother's shouts clearly enough, and then Bors' shortly after. She sat in the yard of the tavern for an amount of time she did not know, staring blankly at the shattered pottery that her brother had thrown to the ground. The wine had long since soaked into the earth when she left.

Artorius Castus had stolen her brother. He'd stolen her childhood, most of her life, and he offered her brother death instead of freedom. A part of her-a part that Dinaden had often called feral-rose to the surface as she pulled the wolf's head of her cloak up and over her face. Her claws were outside the wall, to dangerous to sneak in, but there was a short dagger in her boot. Artorius Castus offered death. It was time someone offered it back.

She'd thought she'd found him leaving the stables, but she couldn't quite make him out as he slipped through the little alleys and courtyards of the village. Slipping down off of the thatching of a low overhang, she fell into his shadow, the blade up as she moved to pin him to a wall.

He moved faster than she'd seen him move on the battle field, burring a knee into her thigh hard enough to make the muscle spasm and become useless. His dark hair shone in the light, and it was all she could see before he'd pushed a hand into her diaphragm and propelled her backward.

"Not the day to trifle with me, I'm afraid," his voice broke through her shuddering breaths, but it wasn't his voice. She growled under her breath at the wrong man. Eyes too dark, hair to defiantly curly.

"Lancelot," she hissed, straightening up as her breath returned to her.

"Aye," he said, voice still dark and menacing. "Though I don't know your name."

"My name means nothing," she said, turning away from him, the dagger still clutched in her hand. In hindsight, she should have known better, should have known that the First Knight wouldn't let her attack go, that she wouldn't be quick enough to escape him on a leg that protested silently.

He had her pinned against the wall, his arm beneath her chin, pressing just against her throat, before she had time to tighten her drip on the dagger. His dark eyes tried to peer beneath the shadow of her hood before he growled and simply tossed the garment backward.

"Well, well, a beautiful assassin of the Bishop," Lancelot murmured. "Can't say as I'd expect any less. Tell me, did Rome spit you from her cunt with a blade in your hand, or did it have to mother you along first?"

"You are not my concern," Lykopis managed against the press of his forearm. She still had the dagger in her hand, could easily thrust it forward, up into the belly of the man. Gods knew she'd thought about it time and time again when she'd heard him boast.

"You became my concern when you tried to kill me," Lancelot countered, pressing harder. "Your name, of I'll cut it from your tongue." Lykopis wheezed against the forearm a moment longer before bringing the blade up, slashing it across the man's shoulder. He dropped her quickly, hand going to staunch the slow trickle of blood.

"I could have gutted you, remember that," she hissed at him, taking a few steps away, putting distance between herself and the dark haired knight.

"What, is it less amusement if I'm facing you?" He asked. He ignored the wound to his shoulder. Her eyes flickered down to the flesh wound. "Too much cloth; not enough flesh. I'll live to fight tomorrow. You're a poor assassin."

"You aren't my concern," she said again, backing away from the man with the blade held out in front of her.

"If it wasn't me you thought you'd been following since I left the stables then who..." Lancelot paused, drawing in a sharp breath. His face hardened. "Arthur."

"Artorius Castus," Lykopis agreed.

"You will not get near him. I will split you from chin to cu-"

"Tell me, were you born in love with the Roman commander, or did he have to father you along first?" Lykopis asked, knowing full well the reaction she'd receive.

"I do love Arthur; all of his knights have grown to love him. We will die before you burry that blade in his back."

"Even tonight?" Lykopis asked. "Even after he's stolen your freedom? The freedom of my brother?" Her voice rose at the last, and she knew she'd made a mistake when his shoulders went slack and the fire died in his eyes.

"Your brother," he murmured, eyes searching her now with a renewed vigor. "Alda?" He asked, and there was something shining in his eyes that made Lykopis uncomfortable. "Surely not. Your hair is too dark." He shook himself from the past, from things that Lykopis wished she didn't understand. "Yes, even now," he said, answering her question.

"Arthur has had his fifteen years," Lykopis hissed. "I will take my brother, or I will take his life."

"As I've said, we will all die before we watch you harm him," Lancelot echoed himself. "Your brother, whoever he is, would kill you before you could harm Arthur." Lykopis stood, the dagger still held out in front of her before she sighed, dropping the blade down to her side.

"Then I will have to make sure his betrayal doesn't end any of your ignorant lives," Lykopis said before turning and disappearing into the darkness. Lancelot was infuriating, had been since he'd joined her brother's company, and still, in the darkness, she could see a softness to him when he'd thought she was his sister.

-Tooth and Claw-

When they rode out from the wall, Lykopis had no chance to keep pace. Arthur pushed his men hard on that one last ride, too hard, and Lykopis knew it. So she followed as quickly as she could on a stolen old mare that really wasn't meant to be ridden and was kept around more for field work than anything. It was a horse no one would guard, a horse no one would miss.

She caught sight of them as they rode back toward her. Tristram was first, out form, pushing his mare on with more urgency than she'd ever seen him express. He had drawn his great beast up, listening intently to something that Lykopis hadn't noticed until she knew it was there. A short way off, a man was walking through the cover of the trees, two or three others not far behind him.

Tristram slipped from the back of his horse, drawing his sword as he went. Woads then, she mused. Except Woads were silent. Woads did not blunder through the trees. Woads did not die as quickly as the three men did either.

He saw her the second he stepped back through the tree line. She wasn't hiding, but she hadn't expected the greeting she received either. His bow was held out in front of him, an arrow notched and skimming by her ear in less than a second. She slid down the opposite side of her old mare, using the beast's front as a shield as the scout crossed the short distance between them, another arrow notched.

He burred it into the throat of the beast, sending it rearing as it died, falling backward, pinning her her at the knees under the heavy barrel chest.

"Tristram!" She shouted at him as he drew his blade, planting a foot against her chest, forcing her back and down into the frozen ground.

"You will not kill Arthur," was all he said, holding the blade as if it were all that would be needed to carry out that task. As Lykopis lay on the ground, she had to admit that it was more than enough to end her life. Her claws were tight against her knuckles, ready to split flesh, and in an instant, she had them beneath his chin, against his throat, pressing just hard enough to let him know that if she'd willed it, he'd have a new way to breath.

"Lancelot talks like a bar wench," Lykopis hissed. "I will not kill your precious Arthur." Tristram eyed her for a long while then, far longer than it should have normally taken him to read a person.

"Fine," he said at length, letting her sit upright to try and push the dead mare from her legs. He did not offer her aid. "We are at the estate to the North, not an hour's walk. We will go to the East. Too many Saxons." He drew himself up into the saddle. He left her there, on the frozen ground, to free herself.

**AN 2: Normally, I post chapters longer than this, but the next chapter is sort of...dramatic? And I felt that to honor what happens there, it required it's own telling. So this chapter, and the next, are a bit short. As a peace offering, you get a snippet of a chapter that will be in the future, after the Saxon saga. I've taken out specific knight's names so that I don't spoil anything about who lives and who dies. **

"That's a woman," *** said, drawing Arthur's attention to the other end of the arena. Surely enough, a woman stepped out of the shadow to her own roar from the crowd. She was armored lightly, with leather and studded metal, a small round shield in one hand and a gladius in the other. The bent blade was wicked, even from such a distance. A hush fell upon the crowd as she raised the sword.

"Surely they cannot mean for-" He tried to protest the match, but the scream that rent the air silenced him.

"Rus!" She shouted to the crowd, turning in a wide circle. The crowd echoed her scream, and it was a bastardization of something he loved. *** and *** had stiffened at the shout, as fierce and angry as Bors ever had been on the field of battle. The Roxolani war cry was not something that either of them had grown up with, but it was something that they'd grown into, taking into their own skin and made their own.

Across the arena, the lion echoed her cry, and the pair fell upon each other in a clash of metal and shield that was jarring even to Arthur's arms. The woman was quick, light on her feet and moved in and around the man's strikes. He was stronger, more naturally honed to kill with his battle axe. ***'s eyes followed those swings, his frown deepening.

"He will not tire," *** said simply. "She will die."

"The Lion never tires," Germanus said, his lips twisted into a smile. "The Lark dies today."

"This is your sport?" Arthur asked quietly, his eyes not leaving the battle. The woman had gotten under a swing, raking the long gladius against the man's left chest. Even from his distance he could see that it was superficial, barely deep enough to draw blood. She'd had to retreat too quickly, pulled the blade back too soon, and she'd gotten kneed roughly in the abdomen for her troubles.

"This is the only sport," Germanus said, his eyes again on the fight. "I will miss seeing her."

"Why? Why pit a man against a woman and call it sport?" Arthur asked, something hot flaring in his stomach.

"She will not die otherwise, and a gladiatorix with too much love from the crowd is a danger," Germanus said easily. "She was not meant to survive this long." His eyes turned toward the two Sarmatians. "Your kind are difficult to kill."

It wasn't a confirmation as much as it was taunting. They'd known when she'd used their war cry.

"How long has this been going on?" Arthur asked.

"The games?" Germanus asked with a scoff. "Since before my time. That one has been in the arena for fourteen years."

"Fourteen..."

"Of course, the rules will not let her step into the arena more than once a week. The hoard does not like watching defeated men suffer so they are given time to lick their wounds." Down on the arena floor, the Lion had delt a nearly crushing blow with his axe, the sharp edge catching her round shield and sending her down hard to the ground, pinning her between the ground and the force of the weapon.

*** winced from his position against a column. "That will be it," he said simply, turning away and closing his eyes.


	7. Chapter 7

**AN: Hello all. My apologies for taking so long to get this out. I had a Eurotrip to distract me. But, now I am sadly back State-Side and committed to writing this thing. Please note that it has taken on a bit of a life of it's own. I didn't intend this to go past 10 chapters. While the "Saxon Saga" won't extend past chapter ten, the second part my brain pan has concocted will probably run another 5-8 chapters after that. Then, perhaps, we can put this story to rest. As always, let me know what you think!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own King Arthur.**

**Chapter Seven - Death Grip**

Lykopis watched from a distance as the knights pulled themselves up on their horses. A large caravan of men, women and children were with them, too many, she knew. Too many with the Saxons she'd seen coming down on them from the North. They would move too slow, and still, Arthur dallied. Dag carried a small boy from a stone building, and not far behind him Arthur carried a young woman.

Ever noble, Arthur Castus, ever doing what was right, for everyone but his men. She shook her head, sighing into the air. What good was it then, this anger, if it did nothing.

She flanked them as they rode out, the two injured being shuffled into a wagon, where Dag sat with them through the day's ride. Night fell, and she eased herself down against a tree, watching as Arthur followed the young woman he'd saved. She rolled her eyes skyward. The woman had just been with Lancelot not ten minutes before, talking in a hushed voice, chin thrust forward in a come-hither gesture that Lykopis had seen on the Roman woman that Dinadan had let himself be drawn back to.

She pulled her cloak around her more tightly; it was going to be a long, cold night.

She woke to a roar, and her sharp eyes took a moment to focus before she found the source. Dag, with his back to the wagon and the little boy held away from him, a blade at his throat, by the fat man they'd rescued from the wall. She didn't know his name, but the way he held the boy, made Dag roar with anger, put a fire in her belly.

She tightened the claws against his knuckles and slipped around the wagon, a short quick jump and tear and the first soldier would be dead. But so would the boy, because not even she was fast enough to split open the guard between her and the Roman and get to him before he startled enough to rip the boy's throat open.

The Roman woman cried at her husband, begging him to let the boy go. Dag roared again, egging the soldiers forward, and they came. Beautiful man, she thought, slipping quickly around the closest and around the Roman, gripping his wrist and twisting down and away, the boy dropping harmlessly to the ground as an arrow lodged deeply into the man's chest.

"Arthorius!" Bors's voice never shocked her. She wasn't sure why anymore. It ought to have, even as he threatened the remaining guards. The dead man lay on the ground at her feet, and she could almost feel Gawain and Galahad some few paces behind her. Arthur spoke to the guard, his sharp eyes flickering over them, catching her a moment but letting his gaze leave her again. She couldn't hear his words. Her ears had stopped working after Bors's shout.

Panic, maybe. Maybe this was panic.

Something was shouted. A command that she couldn't hear, didn't register. Bors was looking at her, his eyes soft and mouth twisted up in a frown. He was nodding at her, as though he was trying to tell her that something was alright. God, this was crippling, this tunneling-

Her craws were ripped down and away, dragging her entire being with her from the leather strapping around her wrist. She twisted, bringing a knee up easily, burring it into the stomach of the one that tried to take them from her. Her brother's curly head of hair doubled over, and she froze, taking several steps backward, eyes wide searching as he gasped for breath.

"Wolf!" Bors shouted at her, and that she heard, pivoting to fix him with a wide eyed stare a moment before bolting, into the woods and away. The trees ripped at her, grabbing and pulling. Her feet were slow, the snow or the undergrowth catching and ensnaring. She didn't get far.

"Stop your running," a voice said, hard and firm, right by her ear before she was tackled to the ground, a heavy body pinning her there. "Easy," it breathed heavily, nearly as out of breath as she felt. "Easy."

She complied with the voice, if only because she knew it, resting her forehead against the cold ground. She'd need to face them sooner or later. The weight left her, instead pulling her around and up to sit in front of him. Gawain stood there, a frown on his face and his axe at his hip, the other, lighter one in hand. The axes she'd had him made.

"You aren't in trouble," he said easily. "Just, give me your weapon and come back to the caravan. It isn't safe to be alone out here." She nearly laughed at him before she nodded. She stood on her own. No hand was offered. It wouldn't have been accepted if it was. He was taller than she'd thought he'd be this close, and she eyed him a long moment. Sooner or later.

He relaxed his posture. "Come on," he murmured, turning his back to her to start his way through the wood they'd run through. "Arthur will want to speak with-"

She pushed him around and forward, gripping the axe from his hip and burying it deeply into the tree at his back. He held the lighter in hand threateningly, but when he moved to throw, his arm would not obey. The material of his thick woven shirt had been pierced through and pinned. She looked at him hesitantly for a long moment. "Later rather than sooner," she said, and disappeared into the wood, leaving him pinned to the tree by his own axe.

**-Wolf's Moon: Death Grip-**

Fulciana stood at the tree-line, hidden in a grey cloak, leaning against a birch, willing its strength into her body. She knew the wolf was a few steps behind her, watching with an edge to her posture that was not to be confused. But Fulciana didn't care for the woman at her back. Her husband was dead. Her son was alive, headed for Rome, where even if he was exposed to the darkest reaches of the empire, he would be safe under the wings of the Pope and the Catholic Church.

A mother's worries in her were gone, so far out of her hands that she was left clutching at air. Until the little one, until Lucan, with his large eyes and his questioning lips, begging reason as to why Dag was gone, why the big man had to leave him. And Fulciana found those questions in her own chest, buried deeply beneath the stirring of affection and the longing for the safety his arms provided when he'd helped her from the ground outside of their estate and again when he'd told her to follow the caravan to the wall, that she would be safe, that Arthur would follow.

Except something had sat sour in her stomach at that, because before, when he'd left little Lucan in the wagon, he'd always said that _he_ would return, that he, Dagonet, would be back, and that because of that, the little one had no reason for concern.

So she had slipped from the wagon the first time it rounded a bend in the trail, into the wood and away from the safety promised to her. She'd traded her fine, fur lined cloak for one of grey, one that would blend with the wood and keep her red dress hidden. The wolf had started ghosting her footsteps she knew not how long ago, but now, she stood beside her, watching as the Saxon leader first marched into view.

"They will die here," Fulciana murmured as more and more of the men came into view.

"Not all of them," the wolf said, and Fulciana turned to look at her for the first time, without pieces of branch in her way. The woman's dark eyes were sharp and focused, sliding over the group of men and then back, across to the Saxon line.

"Even one death is-"

"Acceptable," the wolf breathed. "One death is acceptable."

"Not if it is the one you look for, the one you are here to follow," Fulciana countered, and the woman looked down the short path to Dagonet.

"Five men, down there, five of them, I would die for," the wolf said. "I will die before any of them." She turned those dark eyes to Fulciana. "Would you die for the one that has you here, hiding in the trees?"

Fulciana did not answer, and she instead looked after the men as they drew their bows, firing the first volley of arrows at the Sarmatians. It was such a long way and...

"Their bows are not strong enough," the wolf said even before the arrow skittered to the ice at their feet.

"Then why do they draw?"

"Because Sarmatians are strong. Their bows are stronger, and they know that drawing that string should be difficult each time." The arrows released, and found their mark, snuffing out life at each pointed tip.

"They can't kill them all before they cross the ice." Fulciana sagged against the tree as the Saxons advanced across the ice, which hissed and popped but held firm.

"No, they cannot," the wolf said. She slipped around Fulciana through the trees, and the Roman woman felt so very alone at that moment, standing in the tree-line, watching as the Sarmatians drew their weapons. Something lit in her feet then, and she was walking forward, taking staggering steps as Dagonet lifted his sword for combat. Her eyes followed his, and the big man dropped the blade in favor of his war hammer. His first steps made her heart fly, and with it, so went her feet.

Her heart was beating, she was sure, deep in her chest, but she felt it in her throat, in her stomach, and up into her temples. Someone shouted her name as she ran past the line of Sarmatians that shouted for their healer to return to them, and a hand nearly snagged her elbow. Instead, it ripped off the grey cloak, leaving her to run across the ice in her dress and slippers, both blood red against the grey and white of the land. She slipped against the ice a moment, watching as the hammer came down again and again as the Saxons drew their crossbows, close enough now that a bolt would find purchase in flesh far more easily.

One arrow flew, lodging through his calf, making him roar with anger but spurring him on, slamming the weapon into the ice again. Another caught his shoulder, turning him slightly in her direction as she slipped yet again but caught herself. A moment later, she was in front of him, standing with her back straight, arms out, as if begging those across the ice to come to her. Something sharp exploded in her chest, and that was the last coherent thought she had.

**-Wolf's Moon: Death Grip-**

Lykopis watched Fulciana stand in front of Dag as the Saxons shook themselves from their stupor at having the woman sprint out onto the ice. She drew her bow, firing as quickly as she could at the archers, but still Fulciana caught an arrow to the chest. The woman swayed on her feet, the red of her dress hiding the blood that was sure to be blossoming beneath that shaft and another now, low on her pelvis. Two more caught the woman before the ice shattered and gave way like Fulciana's knees. The woman turned, the ice cracking beneath her feet, and her lifeless eyes caught Dag's face one more time before the big man roared and reached out to her, hands unable to snatch up the red fabric before she was lost to the ice.

He fell to his knees, reaching into the water, shouting the woman's name, as another arrow flew by his ear. Arthur and Bors were on the ice, screaming the giant's name, pulling at him as he struggled against him. Lykopis stared one long moment as the ice cracked backward, toward the Saxons, and yet still they fired, still they were a death threat, looming on the horizon. She closed her eyes, pulled the claws against her knuckles, drawing her mother's sword from her back, and stepped out of the shadow of the tree-line.

Across the field of ice and death, she knew her brother stood, and Gawain, and Tristram, and Bors, dragging the still shouting Dagonet. There was nothing for him there, beneath the ice, and yet still, he lunged toward it as though it held the only thing in the world he cared for.

Chaos bloomed. The ice cracked. She slipped through the Saxon line far easier than she'd thought possible, with the wolf pelt against her skin and the claws against her knuckles, blood spilled easily. Men that would have scrambled back, out of the danger of the ice, fell to her claws before falling to the water.

She brought her mother's blade up, readying it for another slice through flesh, but a hand caught her, forced it back and twisting, sending the blade skittering along the ice before falling into the water. Something exploded low in her stomach at the sight, and the wicked twisting of her wrist was ignored as she slashed at the man's face. He spat at her, holding his cheek as three gouges bled beneath his palm. He dropped her wrist, swearing as another of his men took an arrow and was forced back into him. Lykopis looked long and hard at the water where the sword had vanished. Another arrow skimmed her shoulder, drawing a thin line of blood.

Across the ice, Tristram glared at her, and she glared back, the arrow his, a warning. Move.

**-Wolf Moon: Death Grip-**

Tristram leaned forward in the saddle. They'd been riding for the better part of the evening, catching up to the caravan, and in all that time, Dagonet had been silent, riding on his great mare, refusing anything but Tristram's deft fingers removing the arrows before he brushed him off. Tristram had seen the look on the big man's face. Had seen it in a still pond or in the shine of his own blade.

It was the face of a man that welcomed death, and as much as he wanted to remain there, watchful as he always was, something else itched the back of his mind. The last he'd seen the girl, she'd been pinned beneath her own horse, glaring at him. He'd not killed her, but he'd surely enough left her there to live or die on her own.

Then, he'd caught the shine off of a sword. It had drawn his eye, and he'd notched an arrow, sending it into the flesh of a man that had snuck behind her. He fell as she slipped her blade through another Saxon. A wolf, she was, amongst a pack far too large for her to defend herself. Their leader caught her wrist, twisting it back and around. The blade was lost, and Tristram swore as she stared after it a long moment, slack faced and useless. He drew another arrow back, felling another who threatened Bors, Arthur and Dagonet, and in the moment that he was turned away, she had slashed him, brutally, across his face. He smiled grimly for a moment, ending another who had come to his leader's side. He fell backward, and she had an out, a path he'd cleared for her, and yet still she stood, staring down into the water, where her sword had gone.

He knocked another arrow, anger igniting low in his stomach, mixed with something he couldn't place-wouldn't place. He let the arrow fly, skimming her arm through the wolf pelt. Her eyes snapped up to him, across the distance, and in the next moment, Dagonet was in front of him, and his wolf was gone.

He'd been riding with the rest of the knights since they'd mounted up, all too silently elated to be rid of the Saxons on their trail and headed toward their freedom. It was only Dagonet's mood that kept Galahad from shouting his joy, and Tristram kept glaring at the pup just in case.

"Tristram," Arthur called him, and Tris reigned his horse in, pulling her round and back to his Commander. "I know you have not slept since the-"

"I will scout," Tris said firmly, urging the horse onward. He was tired, but he was far more relieved to be out on his own. He pushed his mare far more fiercely than he'd needed to in some time, and she rebelled by running his thighs into tree trunks that she could have lead him safely through and ducking under branches. "Eh," he chided.

"Serves you right," her voice cut through the silence, and he stilled, pulling his mare back to a stop.

"You are a fool," he said.

"And you are welcome," Lykopis countered.

"You could have died there. You'd have been dead, and no one would have even known who to tell to mourn you." He stopped himself. "No one would have known what name to put on your grave marker."

"There wouldn't have been a grave maker. What name would you have given me?" She asked, a feral smile on her lips.

"Wolf," he said simply, with a shrug of his shoulders.

"Then it would have been as accurate as my own," she said. "Lykopis is the name my mother's people gave me, and Atanea is the name my father's used, your people."

"Lykopis," Tristram rolled the name on his tongue a moment before nodding. He turned the mare back toward the caravan. "Dagonet survived the arrows."

"I saw." She walked along side him as he let the beast pick it's way through the undergrowth. For a moment, he considered letting her ride in his stead, or maybe behind him. She would not have agreed, even as she slowly eased herself over a fallen log, much slower than he'd ever seen her move in the past. "I will be pleased when this is all over."

"Our service to Rome?" he asked.

"The chasing your sorry asses across the countryside," she countered, but there was an ease in her that he had not seen before, one that made him relax in the saddle despite the awkwardness to her movements, the way she seemed to be more stiff than he'd ever seen her.

"You will take your brother home?"

"I will remind him of his home," she said, staring off into the trees. Something like pain flickered across her face as she took another step, but it was gone so quickly, he ignored it. "It is his decision as to whether or not he chooses to return to that life." She paused a moment. "I would not want to return. I couldn't."

"To a dull life, where you would marry and raise sons," Tristram said, smirking down at her. "Perhaps you would keep a goat for the milk."

"And you? Perhaps you will settle down, marry a woman that has grown fat waiting for her men to return, and keep a farm."

"Perhaps," he murmured, his eyes catching the signs of the caravan. They had not been so far away then. "Perhaps I will stay here. I will not leave until I have spoken with him, either way."

"You'll have to leave the island for that, now," Lykopis said. "His tastes have drawn him back to the mainland."

"His tastes?"

"The Merlin says that he was alone, and that a Roman woman called his soul." She shook her head. "He is a fool."

"He has been alone," Tristram said, his eyes sliding sideways. "You are not the kind he chased as a child."

"I'm not the kind any man chases," Lykopis countered, a smile on her lips. "It has taken me a very long time to assure that was the case." Tristram chuckled. "Goodbye then," she said, as a caravan straggler came into view.

"Eh?"

"Nothing changes until he is free, and even then, I might not see you again. So goodbye, and good luck with Din." Tristram nodded, and kicked his mare forward into a trot. He knew she would fade into the tree-line, far enough away that only his sharp eyes would only catch her on occasion, and only if he was watching.

**-Wolf Moon: Death Grip-**

Dagonet stood out on the ice, staring down at the blood droplets that had melted little pools into the ice before they'd frozen over, becoming just another part of the monster that he'd sworn to either defeat or die at the hand of. He'd done neither, not really. He'd stepped out to defend what he'd loved. Everything he'd loved. All of it, from his brothers to his honor to a woman that had more strength than he'd ever seen one have.

And yet, he'd failed. That woman, with a quiet strength cowed by a roaring anger, that woman had thrown off her master's shackles, rose up, stood between him and death and like a specter of death, she had turned to him as the ice cracked, a smile on pale, blood flecked lips, and had been lost to the waters below.

He bent forward, running a finger over the stained ice. It had frozen solid, and he could no more dip his fingers into the blood than her could her hair. It was beyond him, taken from him, turned into something else, something beautiful but untouchable.

"Dag?" Bor's voice startled him, and he pivoted to look at the man, who was so uncharacteristically calm that it nearly scared him.

"I was scouting the rear to assure that we weren't followed," Dag said simply. "We can't expect Tristram to watch us from all directions. He could use a rest. He hasn't-"

"Tris is used to resting on his horse; he's more comfortable there," Bors interrupted. "You haven't slept."

"I haven't been tired," Dag agreed, standing up and leaving the blood-glass behind.

"C'mon," Bors gripped his elbow in a strong hand and tugged him along the ice. None of them liked it, Dag supposed, none of them were comfortable standing on something that could have taken everything away so easily. "G'nna have frost bite on m'ass."

Dag let himself be tugged over the ice until they were on solid ground again, with no churning death beneath the surface that their feet walked upon. Even as he left the cold chill leave his feet, something crept up in his chest, cold and hard and dead. Fulciana had fallen into the ice. It had been her body that had frozen, but that thing that had taken her life had crept up into his chest, settled in his lungs and in his heart, and had solidified.

Was death the damnation? Was death the worst thing that could claim him? As they mounted their horses, Dagonet knew the truth. The sadness, the hardship, in death, was not in the deceased, but in the living.

He barely recognized when his horse followed Bors's into a trot, taking the land far faster than the caravan ever could.

He rode into camp, settled himself in the fading light, and pretended to sleep.

**-Wolf's Moon: Death Grip-**

She glared down at her side, exposed to the air and stained red with blood. Tristram's arrow had warned her a half moment too late, and as she bolted, the man who lead them had managed to bring his blade up, catching her side clear from her ribs down to her hip. The wound wasn't deep, and there was nothing that would kill her. The damnable thing would not stop bleeding.

She'd tried to pack it, as she'd done in the past when she couldn't see well enough to suture, but even that had failed. Now, the edges had reddened, and the stubborn flesh would not stop weeping. Tristram had rode out early in the morning, and she had not been able to catch Bors's attention. She eyed the caravan a long moment, knowing that Dag sat, tucked away in the wagon, where Bors had made him settle when he'd woke the next morning with a fever. The big man would help her, suture the wound closed and send her on her way. If she could get to him.

The group had been up and moving for several long hours, and the knights seemed to rotate themselves through the wagon every so often to check on the big man, rest their horses and keep him company. She glared down at the wound once more and let her tunic fall back into place. She tucked the wolf hood back and removed the claws from her wrist. It felt naked without the leather around her wrist and the cool chill of the claws against her skin.

She slipped into the wagon easily enough, and the big man's eyes found her quickly.

"What?" he asked, voice edged with something that she couldn't quite place.

"You are the healer, are you not?" She asked him, raising the side of her tunic enough to expose the wound. He nodded, gesturing her forward with a finger and drawing something from a leather satchel.

"It is not deep," he said easily, pulling the edges together.

"The bleeding won't stop."

"It will hurt," he cautioned her. His eyes glanced up at her a long moment, as if gauging her ability to tolerate the pain. They fell down her face to the cloak she wore. Deft fingers picked up the hood, pulling it down and across her eyes. She stared out at him for a moment before he pushed it back. "Though, I am not sure that matters."

The needle met flesh time and time again, and for several long minutes, Lykopis was lulled by the sharp prick of pain followed by the dull dragging of the thread through skin.

"You helped with Lucan," he said easily. "I'd thought you were a villager from Marius's estate at first." He paused, as if waiting for her to correct him. She did not. "But Bors called to you. Called you wolf, and suddenly his superstitions were not so out of his character."

"He is loud," she agreed. "But he has watched for me over the years."

"Why do you follow us?"

"Why are you sulking?" She countered, fixing him with a hard look. He ignored both her question and the absence of an answer.

"There," he said, bending to cut the thread with a sharp pull of his teeth. She nodded, eyeing the flesh. "It is infected, but if you are careful with cleaning, it should heal."

"I will be-"

"You!" Gawain's sharp voice froze her, and she turned to glare at him as he blocked the wagon.

"You," she countered, standing up as much as she could in the wagon.

"I couldn't get loose until Galahad showed up to cut me out." He groused at her. "You owe me a shirt."

"You owe me a lot more than a shirt," she countered. His hand was on his axe, the lighter one, the one that he could throw and end her life in a moment. Her claws were still tucked away in a pouch, and with her mother's blade gone, she was without a weapon. It was later then.

"He owes you nothing, girl," Dag countered, and nudged her with his boot. "Be gone, the pair of you. Arthur will want to know what her alliance is, especially so close to the Saxons."

"I look like a Saxon," Lykopis said with distaste. Gawain eyed her a long moment before gesturing her forward. He'd learned his lesson and backed out of the wagon, the axe in front of him.

"Out with you," he told her, and she stepped out easily enough, flanked quickly by Lancelot, who recognized her in a moment.

"The little assassin," he murmured, but there was a quirk of his lips. "Or Tristram's little wolf."

"Tristram has a bigger mouth than you, it seems," she said. Gawain looked on confused for a moment before calling to Arthur. Galahad was drawn by the shouting, and soon too, Bors sat astride his horse, looking on with a child like glee at her discomfort.

"Eh, wolf!" He shouted at her.

"Gabbing housewives, the lot of you," she finally said, eyeing him a moment. Arthur was there in the next, and the look her leveled her with was far from welcoming.

Well, fuck, then; later was now.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight - Until Kin or Kingdom Come**

Lykopis found herself seated in the snow, arms bound behind her and a knight standing on either side. Arthur crouched low in front of her. He'd spent the last while talking with Bors and Lancelot as Gawain and Galahad guarded her. She tried not to look at her brother, a boy she remembered from so long ago and hadn't spoke to in years. There was a chance then, in those quiet moments. But his blue eyes-their father's blue eyes-stared down at her, freezing her tongue.

Arthur watched her a long while, eyes flickering over her features, taking stock. He glanced back at Lancelot, who simply shook his head once. "Tristram, then," he said.

"Friendly, you lot," she muttered by way of answer.

"You tried to kill me," Lancelot said, a smile quirking the corner of his mouth. No hard feelings then, she supposed. If only he knew the number of times she'd have killed him just to get a moment of silence from him.

"Mistaken identity," she retorted.

"And that is all the worse," he said, arms crossed along his chest. The smile was gone. Oh, she mused, she had threatened his toy.

"She wouldn'a hurt 'im," Bors defended, and she let her eyes skitter along to the man. She almost thought about contradicting him. Almost. His sharp look held her tongue.

"She intended to hurt me," Galahad snapped, and her eyes were drawn to him. A knee in the stomach. Such a little thing, and yet it had stayed with him, apparently. She'd done less in affection to Dinadan in their early years. She hadn't drawn blood. Hadn't crippled him beyond a moment of taken breath. And yet, he looked at her with such disdain that it nearly hurt. Their father's face was clear in his, in that moment. She wondered, in the next, if her mothers could be found in her own.

"A love tap," she countered when she found her tongue again. Arthur considered her a moment, that brow of his creased. The heavy craigs of his face were clear this close, and she couldn't help but notice the wrinkles around his eyes, the deep, worry lines in his face. Power was making Arthur Castus old, far older than his years, because hadn't she seen him come to the Wall as well? Hadn't she watched him grow up?

"Why are you here?" He asked. "Did you come with Marius's people?"

"No," she answered, but only after his patience had worn down to a scowl.

"Why are you here?" He repeated himself. Bors eyed her a long moment, face expectant. "I will not hurt you, but I need your full cooperation. My men's lives depend on always knowing who in my company is a threat and who isn't. I'll not ask you again."

"To take my brother home," she said at last. "I am no threat to you or your men."

"One of those from the dungeons?" He asked, thinking of the child that Dag had taken a liking to so strongly. The boy had said his family had been killed though. "Lucan is the only one that survived. I am sorry we were not there sooner."

"Apologize for my brother's absence, but do not apologize for what you cannot control," she hissed out, resisting the urge to lash out with her feet.

"I do not underst-"

"Stubborn little thing," Bors chided, quieting her with a look. A father's look. She nearly called him on it, but he'd plenty of practice with his heathens running about. "One of us." He told Arthur, and the man nodded easily, as though he'd already known. Of course he'd already known. He and his most special knight had been discussing it for the better part of ten minutes. She glared at the curly haired bastard, eye flickering between her two biggest problems. Arthur watched her. Lancelot watched him. She glanced around to see if anyone watched Lancelot the way he watched their commander so diligently. Hm, sad that, she supposed.

"Tristram?" Arthur asked again, and Lykopis couldn't help the bubbling of laughter. "It is not Lancelot, and you bare no other resemblance to any of my men."

"My brother has my father's bearing, and I my mothers," she said easily. "And I would not tell him that he has family that yet lives while he is still your slave."

"None of us are slave to Arthur," Gawain said firmly, ending the argument that might have come. "I have no siblings." He looked to Bors, who also shook his head.

"Dag neither," Bors supplied. The big man hadn't left the wagon, something that had not sat well in her stomach. He was a quiet person by nature, but fiercely loyal and protective of what was his. He should have been there.

"Neither do I," Galahad said firmly. She turned toward him, jaw firmly closed. She studied him a long while before turning back to their commander.

"There you have it, Arthorius Castus," she said. "None of your men claim siblings, and I am here to tell you that I follow my brother. Your scout is not my flesh, though the older my brother gets, the more I wish it was the case."

"That's because the pup is a coward," Tristram's voice cut through her in a moment, and she found him, leaning against the wagon. "Lykopis is not my sister." He drew a dagger from his boot, tossing it to Arthur. "She is also not a threat to any here."

"Eh! You giv' 'im a name, then!" Bors chided, but there was a smile on his face.

"Lykopis," Galahad murmured the name, and the woman froze on the ground. "Where..." He stopped himself, and fell quiet. Arthur's dark eyes shot up to his youngest before going back to the girl in front of him. Comprehension fell quickly on him, and a frown drew down his lips.

"How old was he, when he was taken?" He asked the girl. He'd known that the knight was far younger than the others, but it had never mattered, not until that moment.

"Less than five summers," she answered honestly. "I can no longer recall exact."

"Four," Gawain murmured, eyes sliding over to the youngest among them. "He was four summers."

"Don't," Galahad said firmly, hand on the sword at his hip. He took a few steps backward, his head shaking once. "I have no siblings. You've come looking for the wrong man." He turned then, and disappeared back down the caravan line. Lykopis watched him walk for a long moment, the silence around her on the edge of a knife. Finally, she nodded, turned her head away from the man she called brother, and clenched her jaw.

"You have your answer, Artorius Castus," she murmured, blinking once to clear her head before glaring up at him.

"Cut her loose," Arthur commanded, and Gawain did just that. The dagger he gripped tightly in hand, as though he'd forgotten it was there. Arthur was a good man, she'd heard time and time again, but he had a tendency to command and not act.

Lykopis sat there a long while anyway, hands in her lap. Bors nudged her with his boot as he walked past.

"Fin' me la'er, eh?" he asked, and she nodded. Lancelot left them, no longer convinced that she was going to kill his commander, who remained crouched in front of her. Something clenched in her chest at that. Over the years, she'd learned who watched whom on the field of battle. Lancelot had lost his back, and could a man stand without a back? Arthur still stood in front of her, his attention torn between looking at her with guilt and chasing his youngest knight.

"I am sorry for the sins of Rome," he said after a long pause. "And I am sorry for the brother you have lost."

"I've lost nothing," she snapped at him. She stood, shaking the ache from her limbs. "You can't lose what does not want to be had. I am here to remind him who he was, who his family was, and to show him the way home, should he need the reminder. You choose who you call family. He's made his choice."

"Easy," Tristram cautioned as she pushed past Arthur. He gripped her wrist firmly, hand closing around the paler flesh that had been hidden beneath the leather. "Wait, the pup will come back. He is...confused." He drew her hood up over her eyes and pulled her claws from the pouch she wore. It was odd, feeling another person fasten the wrap to her wrist, but she allowed it. The cold metal was a comfort. He eyed her palm a moment before slipping the metal bar against the scar there and closing her hand around it.

"Like Dinadan is confused," she countered, and he glared down at her a moment. Quickly, he flipped his wrist up, smacking along the back of her head.

"Dinadan was confused since birth," he said, biting back a smile. "Your brother will come around." He pulled away from her and turned her back toward Arthur. "Play nice," he hissed, pressing hard between her shoulder blades. She would have turned back to anyone but the scout and raked those claws against any flesh she could reach. It had been so very long since anyone had told her what to do, and now, in the course of a few minutes, she was following the command of both the bull and the bird.

"I apologize for any behavior you or your men have found unsuitable," she said, and Tristram huffed behind her in amusement. "For kneeing the whinging brat in the stomach, for threatening your knight, and for pinning you to a tree." She smirked behind the wolf's face at Gawain. He stared at her a long moment, studying the wolf pelt with new eyes.

"I nearly killed you," he said finally.

"If you could have thrown your axe that far before I moved, I would have deserved death."

"How long have you been hiding in the forest?" Arthur asked her.

"You should be disappointed in your knights," she answered instead. "Tristram and Bors have known I've been here since the beginning. The rest need work on their awareness."

"I'll never live this down," Gawain lamented, grateful that Bors hadn't been there in that moment.

"Am I free to go, or am I to be tied up again?" She kicked at the rope at her feet. The stiff rope fell against Arthur's boot. The man looked down at it and shook his head.

"Come and go as you please, but do not alert the Saxons to our location." Lykopis eyed the man a long moment. His jaw still worked, jumping as if he wanted to say something more. "I would ask you, for the sake of your brother, that you stay within the caravan. A man may change his mind as readily a a woman, and if he returns to find you gone... I do not want him to lose his head in battle because he thinks after you." Lykopis stared at him a long moment, as if to assure herself of what he'd said.

"You're confused if you think I've watched that boy since he was a child only to let him die because he's worried about me," she hissed, stepping up to the commander. He nearly stepped backward, but held his ground, staring down at the dark eyed woman. "I would let him kill me here, at your feet, before I let him die. You'd do well to watch yourself, Arthorius Castus, Roman Commander at Hadrian's Wall."

"Eh!" Tristram chided her, but didn't pull her back, even as she brought the four claws up against his chin.

"A Roman took my brother. A Roman kept him. A Roman has changed him into a man I cannot recognize. You might as well be all three," she said, letting the cool of the claws rest against his skin. "But my brother loves that Roman; he loves you. Your men love you, Arthur. So don't belittle their ability to keep a level head, especially when you're the one that taught them. I might lose faith in your abilities to keep them alive." She let the claws fall away and held his gaze a long moment.

She had seen animals look into the eyes of men and see something, something damning or something saving, and acted accordingly. In that moment, staring into the soul of Arthur Castus, she understood them. She spun on her heel and left him there, standing at the rear of his own caravan, the soft flakes of snow falling around him.

**-Wolf Moon: Until Kin or Kingdom Come-**

Gawain had always had this knack. A talent, if you would be so kind.

Nothing that ever saved his life or got him a woman, mind, but it had saved Galahad's skin more times than Gawain had ability or care to count.

Which was why, even as Arthur looked for their youngest, he knew that the young man had mounted up and ridden forward. And he knew this, simply and wholly, because he knew Galahad. He was a runner. Had been most of his life. Since he was old enough to realize that there was a before that he couldn't remember. He'd been running away from and to that before since then, and now, well...now he was just running away from it.

Gawain eased himself from the saddle. Galahad's horse was just ahead, snuffing at a patch of grass that had managed to find refuge from the winter. The snow made him easy to track, but Gawain wouldn't have needed it. Galahad alway sought out high places, open places, places where he could see a far as his eye would allow. He sought freedom, and overlooking a wide plane was as free as Galahad could get at the moment.

"It's family, not a death sentence," Gawain said quietly after he found the younger man crouched down in the snow, staring out at the expanse of nothingness.

"Might as well be," Galahad murmured, but the sound carried in the cold.

"Some of us might kill to see our families again. To know they live," Gawain countered. "Think about what you're throwing away, sitting here."

"You don't miss something you don't know you ever had," Galahad said on a sigh. He stood, turning toward Gawain. "I don't love her. You're supposed to love your sister. Want to protect her. Know her."

"You think that's something you're born with?" Gawain asked. "You'll learn, pup."

"Don't call me that."

"Don't be a child, then." Gawain countered.

He had another skill. A life skill, if you would, and it was breaking through Galahad's thick skull.

"Arthur look after her?"

"She was still with the caravan when I left, but Arthur gave her leave to come and go a she pleased." Gawain studied the younger man a long moment. "She won't leave. She didn't come all this way to leave now."

"Let her leave," Galahad said, turning his back to the plane that had caught his attention so completely only a moment before. "Let her go home."

"She's not leaving without you," Gawain countered. He loved the younger man like a brother, but sometimes...

"She'll have to, I don't pla-"

"You've said all your life how you're going to return home." Gawain cut him off. "Grow up, pup. You're alive. You have family that came all this way to collect you when you've earned your freedom. Don't throw it away because you feel like a choice has been taken away from you that you'd made years ago." Gawain left him there, glaring at the place he'd stood.

But really, Gawain had a gift. Later that night, as they made camp, Galahad rode into the caravan, unsaddled his horse, and settled down to sleep across a fire from Gawain. The lion-knight smiled up into the night sky.

**-Wolf Moon: Until Kin or Kingdom Come-**

Lykopis slept uneasily. There were Saxons somewhere on her island. There were people around her. She was sure Tristram was still awake, and when did the man ever sleep, because she'd felt his eyes on her every time she'd even thought of leaving camp to make her own. There were too many bodies, she decided at last. Giving up on sleep, she joined Tristram in his self imposed vigil.

"Go sleep," she murmured, settling against the other side of his saddle, her back to his.

"You sleep," he replied easily, but there was a fatigue in his voice he couldn't deny. She doubted that he'd slept since before they made Marius's estate.

"I won't be able to with all these people," she countered. "I'll watch through the rest of the night." He didn't answer her, but he settled further against the saddle with a sigh, easing down until his back rested against it and his head propped against her back. It was as close to rest as he would allow himself, and in the growing dawn, his snores kept her company.

Miraculously, Bors was the first to wake, sitting up from his bedroll with a snort and a vigorous scratch at his balls.

"Whosa't watchin'?" He called, and Lykopis stood, easing Tristram from against her back down across the saddle. It was a bad angle, but the scout was tired enough to sleep through it.

"Morning, bull," she murmured as she settled down on the ground beside him. A few feet off, Dagonet slept soundly, his face impassive in the dawn light. In his sleep, she could pretend that Fulciana's death hadn't touched him.

"Tris finally pass out?" Bors asked, clearing his throat against the disuse.

"Not long ago," Lykopis answered.

"Ah, let'm sleep. Boy dos'n sleep enough."

"He's hardly a boy," Lykopis countered, but she supposed that Bors was the eldest that remained. Tristram and Gawain weren't too far behind him in age though.

"They're all boys," Bors said sternly. "Get'emselves killed you don' watch out fer'em." Lykopis had to agree to that, but then, Bors had a tendency to do the same thing. With the way the bull's voice carried, it wasn't long before the rest started to wake. Arthur woke next, followed shortly by Lancelot, and Lykopis couldn't help but notice the way the First Knight's eyes followed their commander as he left camp to relieve himself. The morning rituals of men, Lykopis mused, as Gawain and Galahad stumbled off together not long after, both scratching at themselves in their sleepy haze.

Tristram only woke when Dag did, a short while later, when Arthur called them to pack and saddle up. Those that had kept pace with them were low to rise, and Tristram was in his saddle long before the first of them had packed up their too many belongings. The scout glared down at the crowd. They should have reached the Wall last night, and at the pace they'd taken, they'd be lucky to make it before nightfall. No matter how much he'd deny it, he needed the sanctuary of that wall, if more little more than to sleep. Lykopis stood a few paces off, her sparse belongings thrown over her shoulder in a saddlebag. It wasn't a good way to transport anything on foot, but he'd put an arrow into her mare.

"Eh," he muttered, urging his horse forward to nudge her with a boot. He gestured vaguely at the bag she'd modified so she could carry it.

"I'll manage it," she shook him off. "Go make the offer to one of the old ones." His eyes followed her gaze to an elderly woman, grey haired and bent with age. It was a wonder that she had managed to get this far, but with the slow way she was starting her morning, an infant strapped to her front and a pair of young ones around her feet, there was no way she'd keep pace.

"I did not kill her horse," he countered. Lykopis eyed the woman another long moment before nodding and tossing the saddle bag at him with an ease that caught him off guard. He ducked his head, tying the bag with his own. When he looked up, the wolf was gone, some ten paces in front of him, taking the youngest of the two children from the woman onto her back. Their sledge, she tied around her hips. He shook his head as the elderly woman thanked her, easing herself down onto the make shift sleigh. He kicked his heels into his horse, far harder than was necessary, given the way the beast reached back and bit at his calf.

"You will fall behind," he told her as he rode past. He did not wait to hear her response. If the wolf wanted to die, then there was little he could do about it.

**-Wolf Moon: Until Kin or Kingdom Come-**

Galahad eyed the woman who claimed to be his sister as he rode. She had started out at the front of the pack, a child on her back and a sledge dragging behind her. As the day stretched on, she'd fallen to the rear, but still her mouth was a straight line beneath the hood. A hood that he remembered now, more than the name of Lykopis. That hood had stood over him as a child, in his dreams. As he'd gotten older, they'd become nightmares. A wolf, tearing at his heart. A woman, near her mirror image, glaring at him from a hillside, disappearing when he chased after her. She was different here, but he couldn't place it for a long while. It wasn't until the snow started falling again that he recognized the difference. That woman, that black haired, dark eyed woman, had been speckled with grey.

Now, he could recall the protector that was the wolf.

She stumbled a half step, swore under her breath and righted the child on her back. Another walked alongside her, attempting to help by tugging on a leather strap to the sledge the old woman rested upon. They'd been marching for the better part of the morning and early afternoon. It would not take long for her to fall behind now. He turned away from them, urging his horse forward. Gawain had ridden beside him most of the morning, but as he eased his horse forward, a sharp stinging bit at the back of his neck.

Turning, he glared at Gawain, who shamelessly held a length of leather in his hand, still swinging from the assault. "Tie her off," Gawain said, sliding from the saddle. Galahad did as he was told, tying the beast to his own saddle. It wasn't an odd thing. Sometimes, one of the knights chose to walk when the pace was slow, stretch their legs. A few moments later though, the sledge was tied to the saddle as well, and the other child was swung playfully up onto Gawain's back, laughing as it went.

Galahad ignored the cool, hard feeling in the pit of his stomach and rode on. It wasn't his business if Gawain chose to woo the woman by helping her save lives that should have been long lost. The world was a hard place. An infant would die in this world. The elderly would die in this world. There weren't enough heros to make a difference.

Except he remembered more now, that he was thinking about it. A skinny young girl, with the head of a wolf and the claws to match, standing over him, chasing away shadows. That same girl standing a few paces off, watching him as his father-that giant of a man-taught him to use the sword. Those sharp eyes watching him as he played, waiting to pick him up when he fell. Sighing, he climbed from his own horse, leading the animal by the reigns over to the pair. He took the child from Gawain first, sliding it up into the saddle.

"Give her here," he told the woman that was his sister. She eyed him a moment, through the eerie slits in her hood. On a whim, he brushed the hood back. She slid the child from her back slowly, letting Galahad take her and ease her into the saddle in front of her brother.

"Better?" he asked. She nodded, rubbing at her lower back.

"The child wasn't so terrible," Lykopis said. "I have a new respect for horses." Her dark eyes slid over to the sledge, where the old woman and the infant rode peacefully if not smoothly.

"We will find you one when we get back to the wall," Gawain offered from her other side. Galahad sent him a grateful look as Lykopis turned her attention back to him.

"I had one," she said, a hint of annoyance in her voice. "Tristram killed her and left me pinned beneath her."

"He what?" Galahad spit the question out before he knew he was going to say it. Something odd sparked in his stomach and died out quickly.

"I was going to have words with your commander but found Lancelot instead. Your First Knight passed that information on to your scout, so he could help keep a close eye for an assassin. I deserved it, I suppose."

"Arthur is a good man," Gawain offered easily. "He may be Rome's figurehead here, but he is a good man. He has done right by us all these years."

"I've been chided, no need to do it again," Lykopis said. "He and Lancelot are going to have trouble, if you all come out of this alive."

"The girl?" Gawain asked, and Lykopis nodded. At least she wasn't the only one to see it.

"Lance will bed her and it'll be over," Galahad said. "He looks at them all like that." Gawain spared a glance at the youngest, the corner of his mouth quirking into a smile.

"You're just sore he beats you to your own conquests."

"I recall a few conquests he made before you as well," Galahad teased, and the pair were bickering like an old married couple. Lykopis listened to them argue and rough house for a few long minutes. It was nice, she decided then, being close enough to hear them fight like this. She'd seen them carry on in the past, but usually, she was too far away to hear the way that Galahad picked at Gawain's vanity or how Gawain egged Galahad about his youthful face.

"Dimples. Dimples like a little boy playing in mud," Gawain said, tweaking the young man's cheek.

"At least I don't have a woman's hair," Galahad teased back, pulling a dagger from his boot, gesturing him forward. "Come, I'll give you a trim."

"Don't," Lykopis chided, cutting between the two of them. "That hair isn't his to cut."

"It's on his head, isn't it?" Galahad countered, reaching out again in play. Gawain ducked under his hand and socked him playfully in the stomach.

"That hair belongs to a beautiful Sarmatian woman," Gawain said on a laugh. For a moment, Lykopis wondered if he remembered his promise that day in his village. He went on to describe a dark haired beauty with big, black eyes and in the next moment, she'd lashed out at the back of his knees, sending him tumbling forward. He rolled easily, laughing all the way until he stood again and looked to her, thinking she'd joined in their game.

"She'd red hair and green eyes, and you swore to her the day you were taken." Lykopis glared hard at him.

Gawain froze in his play fighting with Galahad, turning to her with a lot expression. She carried the weight of that stare a moment until Galahad distracted him again with a playful swing of his arm. She disappeared into the wood at her back in the moments that followed. The weight of that stare...well, it had been a long time since she'd promised a fire-haired girl that she'd bring her lover back to her. It had been hard winters and hot summers. Some did not survive.

**-Wolf Moon: Until Kin or Kingdom Come-**

Lancelot had been riding beside Arthur for the better part of the day, and still, his commander had not spoken more than five words. His eyes kept sliding backward, to the wagon where the Woad woman rode. Guinevere. Lancelot swore under his breath as he caught the commander once again staring back at the woman. It would be the death of them. All of them, if they weren't careful. And what a happy death it would be, he mused. She truly was a pretty thing, and he'd spent a few lost minutes staring at her himself, until those eyes of her locked onto him.

He supposed, really, that they only ever made eye contact because they were both looking at Arthur.

While should have bothered him more than it did, because to be slighted by a pretty woman had never sat particularly well with him. It didn't though. Bother him, that is. If he was going to be honest with himself, it bothered him more than Arthur was simply gone.

He was a dishonest man. To his very core.

Something moved off in the tree-line to his left, and in a moment, the wolf-woman had slipped from the shadow to walk at his side.

"I seem to recall Arthur asking you to remain with the caravan," he greeted her, and she glared up at him for the briefest of moments before returning her attention elsewhere. "Which makes me wonder why you're here, when you've a little brother to pester. I don't get the feeling you like me very much."

"I've listened to you often enough to have wanted to kill you just for silence," Lykopis agreed, and Lancelot couldn't help but smile at that. It wasn't pride, per say, but rather something akin to it.

"I am despondent, my lady," he said, with a mock bow from his horse.

"Call me lady again, and you really will be," Lykopis spat at him, and he couldn't help the chuckle. This woman, he decided in the next moment, the one that would have run him through, the one that would have killed Arthur if she'd the chance, she was far more comforting that the big eyes of Guinevere. "Where is Arthur?"

"With Guinevere," Lancelot answered. The conversation was turning a direction he'd rather it didn't. He tossed his head back toward the wagon, where Arthur's horse was tied.

"Guinevere?" She asked, but she'd stopped walking, had turned half toward him and stared at him with wide, sightless eyes.

"The pretty Woad woman he rescued from the dungeons in Marius's estate," Lancelot clarified, thinking it was the new name that had thrown her.

"Oh, by all of the -" she said, but he couldn't hear her, as she had turned from him and ran in the direction he'd indicated.

"Lancelot, my friend," he murmured to himself. "I think we've lost our touch." He chuckled to himself a moment before falling back into the usual rhythm of riding. At least, he told himself, Arthur and his fair maiden would have to put up with the brash young woman.

It did not take long for his commander to abandon his post inside of the wagon and ride up beside him. A peace settled over Lancelot, a peace the likes of which he had not felt for several days.

"Run off by the women?"

"Ordered from my own wagon," Arthur admitted. "By Guinevere, no less, with that wolf staring at me as though she might kill me if I didn't obey."

"Considering she's Galahad's flesh, did you imagine she'd be less annoying than he is?" Lancelot gave his best smile, knowing the admonishment that would come.

"I value all of my knights," Arthur said firmly. "May god grant me salvation from their siblings."

"Oh, I don't know. I might trade the whelp for his sister. A wicked little thing with a knife. Almost put it between my ribs, and then where would you be? Riding alone at the front of your caravan of misfits."

"I look forward to seeing her demonstrate those skills once we're safely behind Hadrian's Wall," Arthur said, his brow furrowing. "The Saxons will not stop."

"And we'll be long gone by then," Lancelot agreed. The silence from beside him was uncomfortable, but he ignored it as violently as he could.

**-Wolf Moon: Until Kin or Kingdom Come-**

"Blood," Lykopis murmured, sitting on a large, stone out cropping of the mighty Hadrian's Wall. She glared harshly down at her palm.

When had blood brought her anything but trouble?

Her brother was packing his meager belongings. Gawain, Lancelot, Tristram, Bors and Dagonet as well. And yet...

Blood.

Guinevere's life for her own. The protection of a woman's life. Just once. If just once, the good for little princess of the Woads had stepped out in front of an arrow, Lykopis could have saved her and called the blood debt paid. And yet...

Nearly untouched, the woman had made Hadrian's Wall and slipped off with her people. Merlin had been there, his sharp eyes finding her with too much precision for it to have been anything but a message.

Your debt is not paid. Blood for blood.

And now, half of her blood was packing his horse, and yet, she sat there, on the parapet. He'd stood behind her for some time earlier, even called her name once, but she'd held firm.

What was a blood oath?

Had any of those she'd made ever brought her anything? Her mother had tried to kill her own child. Din had run off the moment she had her back turned to him. Merlin had...

Merlin had kept his word.

Her palm throbbed.

She sighed, dropping her hands to the cold stone beneath her. The chill crept up into her limbs, but it had long ago done that. Now, it seemed, to creep right up into her gut. To stay was a death sentence. Even the ever-brave knights had known that. Even they had left their exalted Arthur to stand on his own.

Except not.

Because behind him would stand that little Woad princess.

Well, fuck, she thought, staring out into campfires of the Saxons. Somewhere, by one of those campfires, sat a man with a sad, little braided beard. It had been his sword that had cut her from him to ribs, and it was completely his fault, she mentally told herself, that Galahad and she had come back together on such awkward terms.

A killing offense, her father would have said.


	9. Chapter 9

AN: Here I'm going to really start working in the triangle that is Lancelot, Guinevere and Arthur. It is not something that I am going to follow tradition on, but it is something I'd like to give a nod to, if at all possible. I am not more or less comfortable writing relationships with different dynamics than the traditional, but I don't know that I can necessarily do justice to the love story that is these three. I am going to try though, and as such, there's going to be a bit of...non-traditional relationship angles. You can either deal with it or skip the areas that are from one of their points of view. I will not write smut, not that I have anything against it but that I can't write it. So your delicate constitutions are safe with me =). With that, onward Sarmatian soldiers!

**Chapter 9 - The Honor in Blood and Bloody Honor**

Lykopis sat atop the parapet, staring down at the sunlight that had just started to peak up over the world, lending a soft, golden hue to the day. It was a beautiful site, really, one that should have been soothing, cleansing. A new day in a new world where her flesh knew of her existence. One where she might take her brother home, teach him who he'd been, and see that he live now that his service was over.

Except she'd made the decisions hours ago, staring out at a false light. A false dawn, one born of campfires and the shine of flickering light off of blades and shields and eyes. A false dawn.

Tristram had been leaning against the stone behind her for the better part of sunrise, just staring out at the light as she did. His hawk circled high above them, but the bird wouldn't come down to him while he was standing so close. The hawk feared the wolf, and the wolf, if it were being honest, feared the freedom that hawk offered. Because that hawk could fly. It could simply give a beat of its wings and ride a thermal and be somewhere else where man nor blood could call to it.

Because blood called. Some just didn't hear it as she did. She'd heard a traveller once say that blood sang. That it pulsed and whistled and sang to the beast in him. She had told him he was wrong.

Blood did not sing. Blood screamed. It screeched. It demanded and beat and throbbed. Her blood was somewhere just waking up, glaring out at the sunlight and washing his face to chase away the sleep. It would soon mount up, run and flee and live. And she would have it no other way, even if it did make something small and stone like form in her stomach.

"The pup will want to see you before he leaves," Tristram said quietly, and she turned away from the sunlight that had turned that deep red that only sunlight can, that deep red that was so reminiscent.

"He will know where to find me, if he is so concerned," she countered. The boy had not sought her out. He had not come to her throughout the night and ask of their childhood home. Not that she blamed him. The grasses along the Crimea were not beautiful. They were grey and speckled with salt.

"He has never been brave," Tristram offered quietly. "But he has never been one to run."

"You're all running," she reminded him, and the way he shifted told her that the thought sat sour in his stomach. In his heart. It pecked at his honor in a way that she was familiar with.

"Maybe," he agreed. His eyes swept out over the field beyond the wall. Too many people, too many threats. There were ways, he knew, to defend the wall against such an enemy, but it would mean deaths. It would mean too much sacrifice. "He once said that he had something to live for. I'd like to think I do as well."

"He's in a port city," Lykopis offered. "He'll be with a Roman woman there. You might find him at her estate, if her husband is away or has passed on." She thought a moment. "She will be very old, by now." Tristram chuckled under his breath at that and nodded once before leaving her alone on the top of the wall, to stare down at the end of everything.

**-The Honor in Blood and Bloody Honor-**

Arthur stared out the window at the morning sunlight. There were things a man could do and there were things that a man could not do if he hoped to live the rest of his days with his own conscience. Leaving now, abandoning the land that he had defended, the land that he had called home and had always thought he would die upon, that was something that he could not stomach.

Even before Guinevere had batted those dark eyes and made him promises with her body, he had known that he would not leave Briton to the Saxons that invaded. Even before he knew, he'd already _known_. There was something about a body that knew things long before a mind, and Arthur's had always been in-tuned more than he'd have liked.

A soft knock sounded at his door, and he held his tongue. He knew that fist, the cadence of the blows, the deceptive lightness. It was a knock that he had heard so many times in the past fifteen years that he knew it did not need answering. The door cracked open shortly after, and he kept his pose, leaned against the window, squinting out into the sunlight. Today was a day of firsts and lasts, ends and beginnings. Arthur had never hated the prospect of a new day so much in his life.

"I will not try to convince your sense of honor again," Lancelot's smooth voice said from behind him, a comfort and a curse. Arthur had not known if his knight would come to him this morning, say his last goodbye or make his last argument, but that he had...strengthened the commander in a way that it always had. Lancelot was his strength, and Arthur only prayed that in the coming day, as Lancelot grew further and further away, that strength lingered.

"For that I thank you, my friend," Arthur muttered. He didn't know if in the dawn of the day, in the early morning light, he wouldn't crumple beneath the arguments, the valid points that the First Knight would no doubt raise. He heaved himself from against the window and turned, nearly falling at the sight before him.

Dark eyes downturned, toward the floor, hair an unruly mess as it always seemed to be, shoulders slumped in a gesture that was far more telling than the fact that the man-Lancelot, strong Lancelot that had never begged in his life-was upon his knees.

"What are you-"

"Do not do this," he said, eyes firmly on the ground. "Do not die here, in this god forsaken land, for a people that have done nothing by try to kill you. Do not let us leave you, knowing that when we do, we leave you to die."

"I cannot ask any of your to stay here for me." Arthur wasn't sure where he found the strength to keep standing, let alone speak, but it had come from somewhere. Just as his strength had always come from somewhere outside of him.

"And we cannot stay without the request," Lancelot said to the floorboards.

"Suicide cannot be chosen for another," Arthur echoed his own words at him.

"But it can be offered," Lancelot told him, those eyes finally snapping up, lit with anger and something that Arthur couldn't place. After fifteen years, he'd thought that he had known each of his knight's expressions better than he had known his own. Now, in the hazy of early morning, he found that he had been so very wrong. "Ask, Arthur, just ask."

He could. So very easily, he could ask that they stay with him, and he knew that some twisted sense of duty would keep them there, at his side, until the end of their days. Maybe, Arthur thought in the next moment, maybe some of his strength was his own. He crouched in front of the man, laid a hand upon his shoulder and met that unfamiliar expression with one of his own.

"Get off your knees, Lancelot," Arthur said with a smile he did not feel. "If you don't kneel before god, you'll not kneel before me."

Lancelot sighed, sitting back on his feet, that odd expression gone from his face. His First Knight stood up like an old man, slowly and with too much effort, and left Arthur there, crouched on the floor. The man said something as the door slid shut, but Arthur did not hear it. Arthur would not hear anything until some time later, when he sat astride his war horse at the top of a hill.

**-The Honor in Blood and Bloody Honor-**

Arthur had laid out a decent plan, she had to admit. With the Woads at their backs, attacking from the tree-line, and the bottlenecking of the gates, the advantage of their numbers would be greatly reduced. Lykopis had to admit that she wouldn't have thought up such a plan, but she supposed, that was the advantage of having Roman tactical training.

He had been in the stables as the Sarmatians loaded up the last of their bags and pushed out the doors. Unlike Tristram's suggestion that Galahad would find, her he had not. His eyes had found her once, in the stable, as she pulled on her mother's armor over the soft doe-skin tunic that she wore to slip in and out of the woods quietly.

He had stared a long while at that armor, the implication that it held, and pulled himself into the saddle without a word. Gawain had stared between the siblings for a long moment before following the youngest among them out of the gates and toward their freedom.

They left quickly after that, as if the prospect of staying was too heavy to ignore for a moment longer. She stood in her mother's armor, which she had grown into well, despite the way the leather clung too lightly across her chest. She was not a warrior, not really, but with the great mare and a wickedly curved blade that Tristram had magicked out of thin air for her, she felt the part far more than she had in the past.

"You'd better catch them," Arthur cautioned as he mounted his own horse. She eyed him a long moment before swinging easily into the saddle. She was Sarmatian, and whether she had spent hours on horseback or not, it was something that was in her blood.

"I am going nowhere," she answered him, staring at the commander. He considered her a long moment before nodding.

"You will cover your brother's escape," he said, an odd sort of realization dawning on his face.

"And I will make good on a promise long ago made." Arthur did not acknowledge that as he kicked his heels into his horse. There was a war to be fought and won or lost. There was little time to worry over reasons, and truly, he did not care. Another person at his back. Another to die at his whim. At this point, with so many dead and buried, what did it truly matter?

**-The Honor in Blood and Bloody Honor-**

Lykopis stared down the hill, eyes watching as Arthur rode out through the gates. He had murmured something about a true leader meeting his enemy before a battle, that it was a pleasure to look into the eyes of those that he would fight. She had thought he'd lost his mind and let him ride. If he wanted to die, who was she to stop him?

From the tree-line, she could just make out the Woads lining either side, and if she looked closely, she could see the Merlin, standing with his daughter in front of him, the war paint of their people thickly painted in ropes and lines. At least Lykopis knew what side she would come from. And Merlin, over the distance somehow still caught her eyes and the power in his stare was nearly crippling.

She did not hear Arthur come back up the hill, nor did she notice when he rode off a short distance. She did hear the roar of their people, the call of the Sarmatians, as it ripped through the air. She pushed the mare forward in time to see Bors, his blade in the air, the red of his face as he finished the war cry of a people that had been beaten but not broken.

Lykopis had never shouted the war cry of her father's people in her life. She had never felt the urge until that moment. Never known the rising adrenaline that came with it or the brotherhood that it could insight. She held her tongue as Arthur reared up on his horse and returned the cry. In that moment, Lykopis was less than this man. She was less than what she'd called Roman, because in that moment, he was no longer Artorius Castus. In that moment, he was simply Arthur, and he was blood to her brother, her people and far more Sarmatian than she.

As he turned the animal back around, brought it up beside her, his head high, she felt for the first time that this was a man she could die for, if he commanded. This was the man that her brother followed. This was the man that Lancelot was willing to kill her for, and this was the man that had Tristram-stern faced, chill hearted Tristram-ready to stand beside even if it meant losing Dinadan.

If that war cry was the first thing that Arthur heard since Lancelot had left him in his room, it was the last thing that Lykopis heard until the battle ended. There were too many senses to play master to, and her heart beat too loudly in her ears to try to quiet it.

She did see the horses though, the standards and the armor, even the ridiculous thing that Tristram called a war helm. She saw their horses, the great beasts that had known each other since their infancy. She saw the camaraderie in the way they stood beside each other.

Tristram eased his mare against hers, and she nodded to him, the blood gone from her face and the hope from her chest. They'd been safe, so very safe, with the Woads and Arthur standing between the Saxons and their backs. So far gone that she had written their defense off as something that no longer mattered, something out of her hands.

And yet...now, there they sat, astride their war horses, ready to give their lives for a land that was not their own, a commander that had lead them against their will, and a people that brought death more than anything else. But somehow, as they stood there, their heads thrown high and the adrenaline making their lips quirk in a smile that was born of fear more than anything else, they were far more free than she had ever seen them.

Galahad's big eyes found her over the neck of two other horses, and they were filled with something that made her so uncomfortable that she pulled the wolf's hood over her face. He looked away quickly. Good, she thought as Arthur kicked his heels into his horse for the first time, let him fear the wolf. Let that fear drive him in battle, and let that fear see him live at the finish.

Battle was something that Lykopis had never been in before, not really. She had always stood on the edge, an arrow and her claws picking off those that needed to die for her people to live. In the melee, she found herself lost, outnumbered and so very out of her element that she slipped soundlessly through, doing what she had found herself doing her entire life.

Dagonet's leg did not slow him as he stood in battle, the great hammer of his ending more lives than she had ever seen, an edge to him that made her more uncomfortable than he ever had. Bors was at his back, the daggers she'd given him slick with blood and shining that black-red that meant he was alive that much longer.

Gawain and Galahad always found back to back, and they were efficient that way after they'd been knocked from their horses. She found herself circling them often enough, ending the life of a man that would have harried them as they danced around each other.

It was an eerie thing, the battle field, because despite the dead and the living, she could still find each and every one of her knights amidst the smoke and bodies. Arthur held his ground, not far from Lancelot, and the pair moved with a grace that would rival any but Tristram, who could be described as nothing less than beautiful on the field of battle.

Beautiful and ignorant, far more stupid than she'd ever thought he could be as he locked eyes with the Saxon commander. Her brow slick with more than sweat, and her shoulder aching enough to tell her that she'd been wounded freshly, she agonized. Because not far away, Guinevere stood with three of her sisters, bringing a man to his knees, but even Lykopis could see the way that she had locked her gaze on the man with the braided beard.

A man that was hers to kill, a man that had lost her her mother's sword. Rage was not new to the wolf. It was not a fresh feeling that she should have bowed to so easily, and yet she did. The new blade was comfortable in her hand, but not as comfortable as her mother's had been. She brought it up and blocked an overhand blow, the strength sending pins and needles up her arm that she viciously ignored as she glared hard at Guinevere.

The woman was slight, a waif of nothingness that had her short blade in hand. A mismatched pair if she'd ever seen one, but as she stood there, parried another blow and felt the warm flood of life running down her shoulder, she knew that she was probably as out matched as the Woad had been.

"Get someone to Tristram," she told the Woad, who nodded and disappeared as Lykopis leapt backward, a blade singing against a metal buckle of her armor. The bearded man smiled wickedly at her, his shoulders sloppy and his hand limp on the blade.

"Come back to me to be sent to hell?" he asked her, that smile igniting something in her stomach. She let him dance around her, let him think he'd won with the blood that ran from her shoulder and the ache in her stomach that told her she'd ripped her stitches wide open.

He came at her again, and she feinted sideways, running her claws against the man's stomach in four great lines that gouged and bubbled blood. He stumbled forward, hand against his stomach, smile gone into a snarl as he came at her again, this time catching her off guard and flaying a thigh wide open to the muscle that bunched beneath.

"Come die, wolf," he egged her forward, and she fell beneath the wave of pain and adrenaline, lashing out with the blade as her father had taught so many years ago. As she moved forward, that smile faded, and her father's was there, something twisted and taunting. The next it was her mother, firm lipped and stern. Anaxilea shook her head, reached out a hand to correct a stance, a twist, and at the end of the hallucination, the bearded man lay on the ground, a broken claw lodged deeply into his chest.

She stared down at him, wide eyed and lost, as his fingers scrambled against the blood slick bony structure. _Never leave a man alive, Lykopis. Never let a beaten enemy draw breath. _The words from her childhood echoed in her ears. How many times had she heard her mother say those words? How often had she shook her head at the thought, the idea that mercy was unacceptable something foreign in a child's mind.

As the blade came down, severing head from shoulder, she wondered if her mother had poisoned her blood as much as their father had poisoned Galahad's.

**-The Honor in Blood and Bloody Honor-**

Lykopis didn't know when she'd lost consciousness, but she was aware that Guinevere had found Lancelot amidst the battle and taken him to Tristram. She watched on swaying legs as Tris fell to his knees, sword held out in front of him in the last desperate act of a man that had been brought down from a height they had never fallen from before. Fear had clenched in her stomach at that, sending what little blood she had left to her numb legs. She stumbled forward three steps before Lancelot crossed his doubled blades against Tristram's as it turned on its master.

For the first time in her life, Lykopis had loved a man.

That was the last she had seen, and as she woke, the throbbing ache in her side renewed as she sat upright, she still saw the Saxon commander, that pale, lined face, staring at Lancelot as if there was no question that he would die there, on the field of battle. She lashed out at it, wincing as her wrist was caught. The blade was gone, and her claws were the last thing she had, the last defense of a wolf.

That face faded for a moment, and in its stead was her brother and another, just over his shoulder. The images solidified, like fog rising off of the land, and she dropped her arm, letting the claws fall away from her knuckles. "Easy," Gawain told her, and she nodded, finding it hard to keep them in focus now that the adrenaline faded.

The battle still wound down around them. The last of the Saxons were driven out by the woads, turning tale and being driven back toward the ocean. Arthur and his men let the Woads do their work and they came together to lick their wounds and gather the dead.

Galahad and Gawain on either side of her, they pulled her to her feet on legs that still felt too heavy to be her own. Her vision swam again, and as a hand slipped on her elbow, it drew her attention to the blood there.

"You need better armor," Galahad griped as he tried to grip the bloodied flesh again.

"I need better reflexes," Lykopis countered and let herself be supported by a shoulder that was suddenly under her arm. The head of golden hair beneath her was matted with blood, but whole, and for that, she was grateful.

They eased her down beside Dagonet, who was sat upright, jaw clenched as Bors worried an arrow from his shoulder. The bull stopped long enough in his ministrations to stare over at her.

"Alrigh' wolf?" He asked, and Lykopis gave him an uneasy nod. He accepted the answer and went back to the arrow and swearing at Dagonet under his breath. She sat there a long moment, watching as the arrow was eased from the big man before her memory forced her to look around, searching for the dark eyed scout that had a death wish larger than any she'd ever seen.

"Tris?" she asked Gawain, who still sat beside her. Galahad had retreated to worry over Arthur's shoulder. The commander himself was leaned over the still form of a body, one that Lykopis's mind prayed did not belong to the scout.

"Go'im," Bors muttered back when Gawain simply shook his head. "Lickin' 'is wounds ova'the'," Bors threw his head back in an angry motion toward where one of the horses lay, three arrows in its neck, dead. Lykopis recognized the beast as Tristram's. It really wasn't a shock that he was with the beast as he held a wound at his side. "Need'a git Lance ta the wall 'n a needle."

Lykopis sighed as she leaned over her knees. At least they all drew breath, which was far more than she had anticipated. She picked mindlessly at the dried blood between her fingers, vision blurring out one more time before it simply did not return.

**-The Honor in Blood and Bloody Honor-**

Arthur stared down the line of beds in the knight's infirmary. Lancelot, Tristram, and Dagonet all lay in beds in various stages of annoyance. The commander had other things to attend to, but he found that nothing but his glare could keep the men in their beds. Tristram, he was sure, would no longer be cowed, as the knight's wounds had long since been sewed up and the scout had never been one to lay in sick bed.

"If I return and you are all not in your beds, I will not be held responsible for the hell that will rain down upon you," Arthur threatened half heartedly. They were free men, and what could he really do that had not already been done time and time again? He eyed Tristram a long moment. "And I trust that those of you who are more inclined to move will use that energy to help your brothers." His eyes slid over to Dagonet, who was staring sightlessly at the wall. His eyes slid back to Tristram, who nodded infinitesimally. Lancelot was still unconscious, his wounds long since stitched up. The Saxon commander had splint him from nipple to hip bone, but the healer had been quick with his poultices and needle. Arthur had been promised that his First Knight would live to see another day.

Guin had survived. Merlin had survived. There had been many words whispered between the two since the battle had ended, but Arthur had neither time nor ears for them, not when his knights were so near death. Not when Lancelot had been bleeding into the ground, watering the Briton soil with his blood.

And now, with his three injured seen to, there were things he had to attend. He spun on his heel, barely to the door when Tristram's voice stopped him.

"The wolf?" he asked, and Arthur had to sigh. Of course, the wolf. The woman had passed out on the field of battle, blood loss and fatigue working against her in a tandem that had threatened her life. Arthur had left the woman with the other wounded, Galahad at her side, Gawain at his.

"The last I knew, she drew breath," he answered, and Tristram nodded. He eased himself to the side of his bed, testing the wound with a wince. "Stay still, and I will send Gawain with news." The scout eased himself back onto the mattress with a resigned sigh. Baby-sitting, he called such detail, but Arthur knew that the man would not rest otherwise.

Arthur need not have worried. He found Lykopis snarling at the aged Woad leader, her face drawn up into such a scowl that he thought for a moment she'd actually become a wolf.

"Your life," Merlin said easily, and Lykopis lunged forward, the healer that was attempting to sew her shoulder back together dropping his tools and leaving her.

"I very nearly gave my life!" she roared at him. "On that field, I very nearly gave mine and the life of those I care about to settle our blood debt, Woad. Don't tell me it isn't done!" She struggled against the firm hand of her brother, who awkwardly held her shoulders back, easing her back to the ground.

"Yet you did not," Merlin said, and Arthur wondered for a moment what could be so important that a life was commanded.

"What is going on here?" he asked, stepping between Merlin and the woman. "If one of my people owes you a debt, you can take it up with me."

"Not this debt, Arthur Castus," Merlin answered. "This debt must be paid. Blood, as she said so long ago, is a powerful thing to swear by."

"Your daughter lives," Lykopis snarled, and Arthur turned half toward her, anxious to have her at his back. "Your daughter lives, and I am the reason. Call your debt paid, Woad, or I'll see my work undone." The promise was made with such firm conviction that Arthur and Merlin tensed. After a long pause, the Woad leader finally nodded, and disappeared from the bedside.

"What is this about?" Arthur asked, but the woman refused his command and simply stared at the ceiling, fatigue erasing the scowl from her face Her side was bound and had long stopped bleeding, but her shoulder was ripped clean open again, leaking what little blood she had left into the wooden floor below.

"She's made some deal with Merlin for Guinevere's life," Galahad offered. He'd caught little of the argument, but shared what he knew. "Merlin does not think that her debt has been paid." Arthur nodded easily and eyed the wolf a long moment. Her eyes had glazed and she stared sightlessly off in the distance, unconscious.

"Let Tristram know she is well," Arthur commanded Gawain, who stood to the side, a frown in his eyes.

"She isn't well," Gawain countered, but he did as he was commanded. Arthur sighed and ran a hand through his hair. His great hall was filled with the dead and dying, the injured and recovering. It would be many long hours until Arthur found a peace that he so desperately sought.

Gawain leaned heavily against the door to the knight's infirmary. In the past, it had been an annoyance to be shut behind those doors, but now with Woads at every corner, it was a sanctuary. Two sets of eyes found him, and he gave them a haggard smile. "Arthur had sent me to assure you that Lykopis is well."

"You lie," Tristram said simply, and Gawain gave him a smile he did not feel.

"I lie about a lot of things," Gawain confirmed. "But the wolf will survive if she can make herself stop threatening Woads."

"You sit with the invalids," Tristram murmured, pushing himself to his feet. Gawain eyed him uneasily as he swayed a moment before steadying. "Get some sleep." Tris commanded as he left the room. The lion-knight considered a moment, but the dark way Dagonet eyed the wall and the uneasy rise and fall of Lancelot's chest made him think better.

**-The Honor in Blood and Bloody Honor-**

Galahad stared down at the woman that had called him brother. She was not something that he would have thought his blood could become, bloodied and snarling in the face of a man that could command her death. He smiled down at her sleeping form. He could not deny that her fierceness made him proud.

Proud. He wondered for a moment if she was proud of him, if she knew that by standing with them, she had made herself part of his life. A part that he would never outrun, no matter how far he went. The question became, why did he? What in him had changed so much in the past three days that he no longer wanted to go home? wanted to find whatever he'd left behind?

Just a few weeks ago, whenever the nearing topic of their freedom was raised, he had always only wanted to return home, to find the face of the man that he called his father. That face that he had forced himself to remember through all of these years. Now though, with that family so close, the reality so sharp, he wondered at the family that he would find.

He could picture a dark haired woman with a face twisted into a frown. He could picture a windswept plane with little thatched huts. He could see his father's face as clearly as his own. No matter how he tried, he could not split the face on the ground before him with the face of that dark haired woman. That face of disappointment.

Disappointment.

Was that the whole of it? That somehow, he'd have let down a people he did not remember? The thought was enough to make him laugh. Why would he care if a people were proud of him? He'd not seen them in fifteen years, and he had more than made himself contented. He had his family. He had Gawain. He had Dagonet and Bors and Lancelot and Arthur and yes, even Tristram. Hadn't he seen that disappointed look on Tristram's face more often than he could have liked? And when had it ever bothered him?

So no, it wasn't the disappointment. He had all the family that he could stomach and then some, even without Lykopis. Even without the sister he hadn't known he'd lost.

Loss?

That sat far more comfortably. If he left as he said he would, if he ran back to the Crimea, to a village he did not remember, to live a life that he did not know, what would he lose? Before it was a reality, before it was so very there, he had thought he'd lose nothing. That there would be nothing about Briton that he would miss.

Now...with it just there, he'd miss everything. He'd lose that family, and was he really ready to trade those ties in for others that had been long gone? A father he did not know. A mother's face he could not love? A sister...

Except, he'd not lose her, not really. Because she lay just there, on the ground in front of him, drawing breath, those dark eyes-

"You're awake," he said softly.

"You were thinking far too hard," she answered, easing herself upright. She would not be conscious long if she kept that up, but the healer had at least finished his sutures and gone along to the next.

"Would you go back?" Galahad asked before the small sliver of him that was coward could stop the rest. Lykopis considered him a moment, as if trying to make sense of his words. He could see the realization and the fight in her, then. The what she should say against what she thought.

"Yes," she finally said. "If only to know that it was not something I wanted." He nodded at that. It made sense enough, but did he really want to make the journey, to go so far and be so tempted to not return? "If you don't, you'll forever wonder what you might have had."

"I might have nothing," he said. "They might all be dead and buried." Because there was that option. There was always that option. Everyone he knew was fifteen years older, fifteen years were a plague or an injury might have claimed them.

"That is impossible," Lykopis murmured, and she looked at him with a mischief in her eyes that he had never seen. "Neither of us are that lucky." Galahad laughed at that, truly laughed, and for the first time in his life, he was glad of a sibling, even if she only managed to keep consciousness for a moment or two at a time.

**-The Honor in Blood and Bloody Honor-**

Guinevere was annoyed. That was what she had decided to be, and as such, it was all she would allow herself. Arthur Castus was proving a difficult man to pin down, and pin him down she must, should their people join together as planned. A soft smile quirked the corner of her mouth. And wouldn't she enjoy the pinning?

She shook herself as a dark head of curly hair appeared in her mind's eye. No, it would not do to dream herself down a road that she could not walk. Even if walking that road with the sharp tongued night would be more enjoyable than she cared to admit to herself.

She sighed and leaned against the cool stone wall, sharp eyes watching and waiting for Arthur to come back to check upon his knights. He had been gone most of the day, and she knew that his honor would not let him rest until he had checked up on his injured. The scout had left earlier that morning and had not returned, but the giant of a man and-

No, girl, she chided herself. She could not think his name, not when she had Arthur to distract from himself. As if thinking about the man summoned him from the ether, he was there, pale faced and stumbling in fatigue, but he was there.

"Arthur!" she called him, and he paused, searching for her voice before finding her. She eyed the cut of his armor and the ruddiness to his cheeks from the wind. He was not such a bad partner, she had long ago decided, but there was a seriousness to his eyes that bored her even while it made something in her settle into a restful slumber.

"M'lady," he said, voice sluggish. "I apologize, but I must see to my men before I settle any dispute from your people."

"I bring you no dispute," she countered. "Just my company." And oh, if men were not easy creatures to manipulate as his eyes locked with hers, and the dark of his eyes seemed to darken further.

"I'm afraid I am poor company today," he said, and gave her a short bow.

"Then tomorrow," she urged. "My father would very much like to discuss what will happen between our people, and I...I would very much like to discuss what will happen between us." Arthur watched her a long moment, as if something in her words drew his attention more than they ought.

"Tomorrow," he agreed. Guinevere have him a small smile before gripping his arm to pull him down. She kissed him lightly on the corner of his mouth before leaving him there to consider her offer and the kiss.

She found her father outside of the gates. No matter what the future would bring, Merlin would always be ill at ease with the settlement, but he lingered for her sake. He did a lot of things for her sake, she knew.

"We will meet with Arthur tomorrow to discuss the future," she told him, and his eyes flickered over her.

"Your union," he said easily.

"The union of our people" she corrected. "He is a Roman, and the Christians do not fall into unions as quickly as our people."

"You don't fall into unions as quickly as our people," Merlin countered her, and she had the good grace to blush. "Take care, girl. I let you have your own dreams, but it is time to come back down to the ground."

"You will take care, Father, to mind your own counsel," she told him, voice clipped.

"I have been shouted at by another child today, I'll not let you do the same." Guinivere considered him a moment. There was a sense to him that she had not seen in some time. A defeated stance that made her uncomfortable. "Love the man, daughter. Love him and claim him so that our people can be made one."

The command did not settle well, but then again, little had in the past few weeks.

**-The Honor in Blood and Bloody Honor-**

Lancelot woke slowly, the world around him a splash of color and shadow. His chest ached, but then, he was lucky to feel anything at all. When he last closed his eyes, the face of his commander so worried above him, he had not planned on opening them again. When the world focused, he thought that perhaps he had just blinked.

Arthur sat beside him, his eyes deeply bruised and and shut. The commander still sat in full armor, the dirt and blood still on his sweaty skin. HIs hands were still bloody, and Lancelot sorely doubted that the man had eaten since the day before.

He eased himself upright, nearly passing out from the herculean effort that should have been nothing but a whim. "Easy," Dag's strong voice cautioned him, and he froze, caught. The big man was leaning in the corner, staring darkly at him, as though he could simply will him back down.

"How long?" Lancelot asked, pleased that his voice did not crack.

"Less than a day," Dag answered. "You will not be up and about for a few days, or so says the healer."

"He has always been a cautious man," Lancelot said, easing one leg off of the bed.

"And optimistic," Dag agreed. "He threatened Tristram with certain death should the man not stay in bed through the night."

"Did our scout wait until the healer had left the room or did he simply get up and leave?"

"He waited until Arthur had come and gone," Dag said.

"And you?" Lancelot asked, a smile quirking the corner of his mouth. "Did you wait until our commander had left the room to abandon your bed?"

"He did, but not by much," Gawain said, stirring from one of the cots. The lion-knight stretched, back arching until he nearly fell off of the bed. The ease with which he slipped from the straw mattress told Lancelot the man was not wounded. "You'd better pray he sleeps on until you have an excuse."

"An excuse?"

"For daring to be wounded," Gawain said, a wry smile on his lips. "He did not take it well."

"He never takes an injury well. Every scratch is as if one of his knights have died."

"He took it particularly not well," Gawain said, fixing the First Knight with a stare that spoke more than his words could. Lancelot sighed and shook his head. Since they were small, Arthur had not taken Lancelot's injuries well. It was as if their commander took them all on his shoulders and the fall out was always ugly. The last time-and it had not been a particularly bad injury-Arthur had grown sullen and quiet for weeks.

"Shall I apologize for being in the battle or something in particular?" Lancelot asked, annoyance coloring his words more than he would have liked. It wasn't as though he didn't appreciate the concern, but Arthur took it too far.

"For fighting a man that had beaten Tristram alone," Dag said easily.

"And let him die?" Lancelot asked.

"You're no less a terror to deal with when Arthur is wounded," Dag chided. "Take your punishment and do the rest of us a favor, apologize and assure him that it was not his fault."

"Of course it's not his fault, but the thick headed Roman never listens." Lancelot sighed and leaned back against the mattress with a wince. Consciousness was not worth whatever hell he was going to catch when Arthur woke. If he was lucky, Lancelot thought, he might sleep until his wounds healed.

**-The Honor in Blood and Bloody Honor-**

Gawain pushed his hair back from his forehead and wished not for the first time that day that some of the other knights were cleared by the healer. He'd spent the better part of the day digging, and the pile of bodies would have him digging for the rest of it. Merlin's people, shockingly, had disappeared when Gawain, Bors and Galahad had come out to start preparing graves. They'd been sorely tempted to just light them ablaze, but Merlin had insisted that his people have a traditional burial.

Bors had long ago run out of air to complain with, and Galahad dug so slowly that Gawain wondered if he was more of a hinderance than a help. Of course, he had to admit, the pup's mind was elsewhere.

Lykopis had burned through the night, and she had yet to wake.

It was still early, and no one should have been shocked that she was still unconscious, but the vigor with which the woman had shouted at Merlin the day before made them all uncomfortable. It was well into the day, later than earlier in the afternoon, and still she did not wake. Galahad had been sullen and pouty, and Gawain had no doubt that he would continue to be until the woman's eyes opened.

Tris was equally as despondent, though the scout would not admit it, and few could tell that there was anything more than his normal demeanor affecting him. Gawain smiled down at the dirt. There were things about Galahad and Tristram that were exactly like, though neither would ever admit.

"Eh, Gal, think ya could steal us som'fin ta drink?" Bors asked, and Galahad nodded silently and disappeared quickly, his shovel abandoned.

"He won't be back for a while," Gawain cautioned as Bors went back to his digging.

"Ya think I expect less?" Bors asked, a smile on his face. Gawain chuckled under his breath and tossed another shovel full of dirt out of the whole he stood in. "Wolf's strong."

"Didn't say she wasn't," Gawain agreed, but the silence from the big man was too long. "She's burned for hours."

"Get'er blood back, she'll stop. She's gon'na wake up'n be pissed," Bors said as though it was obvious. As though she had something to be mad about.

"That Galahad's been moping like a dog or that Tristram stole her claws?" Gawain asked, and the question brought a smile to Bors's face.

"S'tha scout?" he asked, but he laughed into the sky. "She'll kill'im."

Gawain couldn't help but chuckle.


	10. Chapter 10

**AN: This chapter is very short, and is mostly a transitional chapter between two story lines. I hope you enjoy it none-the-less. **

**Chapter 10 - Shadowed Heart**

Lykopis wasn't sure where she was, only that it was grey. More grey than anything she had ever seen. And quiet. So very quiet. Her feet did not make sound on the grass, and no matter how far she walked, there was simply more of it, a never ending field of ghostly grass that made her more and more anxious.

"Hello!" she screamed into the air, into the coulds that crackled with lightening but made no noise. Ran fell, spattering her face and into her eyes, and yet, as it touched her skin, it disappeared, gone just as her voice had been.

A shadow slipped across the grass, but no matter how hard she looked, she could not make out the object that cast it. It ghosted across her feet, her hands and finally over her face. Like the rain, she felt it, five narrow points of pressure that were gone as soon as they had come.

She did not know how long she stayed there, in that other world of greys and blacks and whites, but after a while-too long-sound came back. That shadow came and went, and the touch of it was fleeting, but with it came a voice, the tones and cadence so familiar that it was maddening. She could not place it.

After a while, the voice left, the touches left, and the shadow abandoned her to her silence. The greys faded, slowly and surely, to a darkness that she could see nothing through. The rain stopped all together. There was simply nothingness for several long moments until there was pain.

Pain so resounding, so complete that it drowned out the shouting, the burst of light that came and the familiar growl low in her ear.

"You will not die," it said. The pain made the words mean nothing, but the tone...that maddeningly familiar tone, was soothing despite the lack of meaning to the words.

That pain exploded again, across her chest, repeatedly, rhythmically, and when it was finally gone, she stared up sightnessly at a thatched roof. Something lay across her legs, holding them firmly into place, but she couldn't bring herself to care to see what it was. That all encompassing pain was gone, replaced with a dull aching.

"You will not die, wolf," the voice came again, much closer, much more real than it had been a moment before, and while she knew the voice and the words, her mind could not find the source.

**-Shadowed Heart-**

Arthur's wedding was not a surprise. Everyone acted it, and Lancelot pouted for a good threee days, but anyone with eyes could see the way the Woad had taken to ghosting his steps. Lykopis nearly felt sorry for the First Knight. Nearly. The wedding was rushed, and Lancelot milked his injuries long enough to be able to fairly decline the invitation to attend.

Lykopis didn't fairly decline anything. She simply looked at Arthur, told him she had no desire to be at a wedding, and hid. Of course, Gawain was there to differ, has he had been nearly ever day since she'd woken.

"You can't just not go," Gawain groused, follwoing Lykopis across the training yard that they had used since they had come to the wall.

"I can if I say I can," she bit out, tired of the argument that had exploded when she'd turned down Arthur's offer of attendance.

"You are Galahad's sister, you have to be there," he said, grabbing her elbow and spinning her about. "What does it say if all of Arthur's people are not there?"

"That they have better things to do than watch something obvious be announced."

"You're impossible," Gawain shouted at her, letting her go.

"And you are not listening," she said. "I am not here to show some following. I am here to show Galahad the way home."

"Why are you so afraid of actually knowing anyone?"

"Why are you afraid of not?" she countered, but there was an uneasiness in her stomach.

"This is your argument?" he asked, a smile on the corner of his lips.

"There are things to do," she answered, and he let it go.

"You are staying for the wedding?" he asked instead, and she gave a short nod.

"Galahad insists," she answered, "but after, we leave."

"Fair," the lion-knight said and left her standing there, in the middle of a field. Lykopis paced for a moment, annoyed at the seemingly endless way that the knights seemed to need to be in each other's lives. Apparently, she was an extension of her brother, and the constant interference made her more than itchy.

She stared hard at the wall, willing herself up and over it. If it was possible, she'd be in the trees and gone.

"You don't have to stay here," Tristram's voice startled her, and she pivoted quickly. He leaned carelessly against a fense, whole and drawing breath. It was the first she'd seen of him since Bors had lugged the scout over his shoulder into the infirmary.

Something like relief bubbled in her stomach quickly only to fizzle out into annoyance.

"You are a fucking moron," she told him, glaring. He arched an eyebrow at her, the corner of his mouth quirking up in that half smile that he only ever showed.

"You didn't have to worry," he told her, pushing off of the fense slowly. He moved with a stiffness that she had never seen in him, and she'd be damned if she admitted she worried. But she did. Because he was the scout. He was Tristram, and she'd never seen him fall since that day he'd collapsed running.

"If I was worried, it was because Dinadan would then be my responsibility, and I can't handle his bullshit on top of Galahad's." She knew she was lying. He knew she was lying. All in all, it was a rather sad attempt, but it was necessary.

"No one wants that," Tris agreed, and they fell into silence.

"How badly is Lancelot taking everything?" she asked after a while, and the scout only shook his head at her. "You know he's in mourning over it."

"His thoughts are his own," Tristram countered. "But he is...more quiet than usual. He blames his injuries. He will not leave the infirmary."

"Let him hide," Lykopis said, annoyance in her tone. "I only wish I had such an excuse."

"You do, you were closer to the dark ocean than the rest of us," Tristram reminded her. She glanced toward him, something in his tone just off enough to concern her.

"I was not," she countered, but the way that Galahad stared at her when she woke was enough to tell her different.

"You were," Tris said, and that tone was still there, that rough growling tone that made her uncomfortable with its familiarity. She eyed him a long moment and shrugged.

"It doesn't matter," she said simply, brushing off the uneasiness. "I'm well enough to be up and drawing breath." She paused a moment. "And I have to find my claws. I think they were left on the field."

"They weren't," he answered her, a smile on his lips. He hesitated a moment before turning back toward the fense he'd been leaning against the slowly bent toward the grass. A hiss escaped him.

"Dont-"

"Eh, leave me alone, woman," Tris groused as he straightened, her claws in his hand. She eyed the three remaining claws, the fourth broken off toward the hinge. He held them out to her and she took them with a shaking hand. She had not had to replace them since they'd been given to her, and to see them blood stained and broken was...

"Well," she murmured down to them, as if they could understand her.

"We will have them fixed," Tris said, sensing her mood. He drew the final claw from his pocket, holding the bloodied thing up to her as a trophy. She took it with a smile that didn't reach her eyes.

"I know someone," she said easily, ignoring the naked feeling on her wrist. "When Galahad and I leave. Until then, I'll have to make sure I don't need them."

"The fight is over, and it will be over for you for some time," Tris said, eyeing the stiffness in her. "The healer sent me to find you. He threatens you with watching Lancelot if you do not come to him by the end of the day."

"Let him threaten," Lykopis said easily. "If he follows through, I'll have a damned reason to not watch this farce."

"Arthur's marriage," Tristram clarified, and the wolf scowled at him.

"Convenient that the daughter of the Woad leader fell in love with your commander so quickly. More convenient that it was at a time where it was either join or fight."

"Arthur feels for her. You are not blind enough not to see it."

"And he is blind if he doesn't see where her attention lies," Lykopis countered.

"Eh, what is wrong with it?" Tris finally groused, ending the discussion. "Let them all see where their stares go. There's no point in leaving them all to suffer." Lykopis had to agree to that, she supposed. If it was something that made all parties happy, she had no right to question it.

"You just don't want to deal with Lancelot's sulking," Lykopis accused, and the scout fixed her with a half amused, half affronted glare.

**-Shadowed Heart-**

The healer had kept his word, and as such, he had found Lykopis, threatened her with Arthur's wrath, and locked her into the knights' infirmary, where Lancelot slept. And sleep he did, silently and so softly that Lykopis nearly checked his pulse twice. It was only after he started shifting that she woke him, a hand lightly against his shoulder.

He nearly lept from the bed, but the thick rope of sutures from his chest to his hip kept him in place. "Easy," she muttered at him, and after a long, wide eyed moment, he eased himself back to the mattress.

"They send you as my sick nurse?" he asked, humor in his voice despite the pain that lingered. "I shall expire from your dislike of me long before these wounds."

"Or your body will heal the faster for fear of me," she said simply, settling against another of the beds. They stayed quiet for a long while after that. "You saved the scout," Lykopis finally said, and Lancelot stared across the small space at her with a confused look.

"He's put an arrow in someone about to take my life before. Besides, the battle was fun," Lancelot said.

"I sent Guinevere to find one of you instead of going myself. If you die, knight, I will be guilty for several days."

"Just days?" he asked in jest, settling against the wall after pulling himself upright.

"I did try to kill you myself not long ago. Be grateful for a few days."

"A lovetap," Lancelot countered, recalling what she'd called it when she'd kneed Galahad. "I recall a man dieing at your hand with a similar sword on the field of battle. His blood spattered the back of my neck. Funny that someone would kill him and be gone in the next moment."

"You are very focused when you fight," Lykopis said, trying to find the words to explain without offending. "You are honorable when you fight. You all are. You don't look for someone at your back because you kill a man while he faces you. You've all done it all your lives, and it has been...difficult making sure that your honor does not kill you."

"That was not your responsibility," the First Knight said easily. "But if it has kept those alive that it has, then thank you."

"Thank you for Tristram," she countered. Lancelot chuckled weakly on his mattress. "And for my alibi."

"Alibi?"

"I am your keeper for the festivities," Lykopis informed, and the First Knight grew quiet, staring up at the thatched roof.

"A wedding is a happy thing," he finally decided upon. "I will be fine to look after myself for a few hours."

"For all except those who would not see it happen, and it is my special honor to assure you don't hang yourself with your bed clothes."

"None would deny Arthur his happiness." Lancelot stared at her a moment before the lewd smile that she had grown to hate over the years surfaced. "Unless you have gone from hatred to passion for our commander."

"Hate is a passion," Lykopis said. "But no, your Roman is free to wed who he chooses, and you are free to mourn the loss of possibility."

"What loss?" Lancelot asked, but his voice was clipped, clear and annoyed.

"Were you born in love with your Roman commander, or did he have to mother you along first?" Lykopis echoed words that had long since passed between them. Lancelot simply chuckled up at the ceiling and let the conversation die.

**-Shadowed Heart-**

The wedding of Arthur and Guinevere was a great occasion, one that Lykopis heard about later, at the tavern, when the men were far into their drink. The lucky man himself had disappeared long ago with his newly made wife, but the drinking had carried on late into the night.

"Bors...Bors, when are you going to make an honest woman of Vanora?" Gawain chided, his mind slurred and his words more laughter than speech.

"W'n she'll 'av me!" Bors roared back, face red from the alcohol and merriment. The pair of them were seating at opposite sides of a rectangular table, tossing a pip back and forth between them. Half the time the damned fruit ended up on the ground, rolling in dirt and vomit more often than in their hands.

"Move, bull," Lykopis growled at him as he lay down on the bench to try and catch an errant throw. The big man sat there, dazed for a few moments before throwing her a smile and sitting up.

"Ya leavin'n the morn'n?" he asked, eyes passing blatantly between her and Galahad.

"Yeah," Galahad answered for them, and Lykopis simply nodded. That had been the plan, of course, but he'd yet to say.

"Commin' see me a'for ya leave. Gotta gif' fer ya," Bors said.

"We're leaving at first light," Galahad sid, staring uncertainly at the blad man. "We don't have time to wake you."

"Ye'll make time," Bors said sternly, face suddenly sober. The pip flew threw the air and truck him against his temple. He made a wounded little sound before lunging around the table at Gawain, who stumbled away on uncertain feet. Lykopis found herself laughing as the bull finally caught the lion and the pair fell to the ground wrestling over nothing but pride.

The wolf sat back against the wall, leaning far enough to be nearly uncomfortable just so she could stare down the line of knights as they celebrated their freedom, Arthur's wedding, and the possibility of tomorrow. Bors had said time and tiem again that returning home was a waste of time, and if Lykopis was being honest, he was probably right. Arthur would stay, that much was clear, and Lancelot would not be fit for riding for several long weeks. Dagonet had said little to anyone, but Bors spoke enough for the pair of them. Dag would live with them until he found reaspon not to. At that, Bors would waggle his eyebrows suggestively, but the big man would just stare off into space. Gawain had thrown around several ideas: staying, going, moving part way back. He said each of them with such equal parts jesting and seriousness that it was nearly impossible to tell which he would have preferred.

Lykopis left them early that night, but she ought have not, considering that when she finally found her brother, he was sleeping against one of the tavern tables, passed out drunk. She nudged him in the shoulder easily, thinking perhaps he'd come back during the morning after packing his things. Her own were in her saddle bag beside the stall of a horse Jols told her Arthur had indicated was now hers.

"Hey," she said, shaking him again, but the man slept on soundly. "Galahad!" she said more loudly, kicking his stool with more vigor than was necessary. It teetered a moment before dumping him into the dirt, where he sputtered and swore.

"What?" he snarled at her, something wet sliding down the side of his face that Lykopis shuddered to name.

"You said first light. I have been waiting for hours."

"Ah, hell." He scrubbed at the mystery substance until it was gone. "Tomorrow. I meant first light tomorrow." Lykopis eyed him a long moment, taking in the little wrinkles at the courners of his mouth and the way he did not quite meet her gaze.

"If you want to stay, that is as well as leaving, but don't lie to me, pup," she said, leaving him there in the dirt.

**-Shadowed Heart-**

Lykopis glared out at the green that was Briton beyond the wall. At one point, she would have found that hell, but now, stuck behind that wall, penned down and unable to leave on her own free will, she was more uneasy than she had ever been. Three months ago, Galahad had first said that they would leave in the morning. Each day since, he had made a similar boast, finding new reasons to stay behind. At first, it had been that their brothers were still healing, that Arthur needed them to cement his control, but those had long ago gone sour. Lancelot was up and about, even if the wound across his chest had taken to infection and had to be reopened and drained. The man had burned for weeks, but he had come through it alive and well.

"A messenger rode in early this morning." Tristram's voice was something that she had grown used to, even when she did not know he was there.

"Messengers come and go at all hours," Lykopis said, annoyed at being interrupted in her self-pitying study of the world.

"Not ones that carry Roman standards."

"Roman?" Lykopis asked, rolling backward off of the parapet she sat upon.

"Roman," Tristram echoed. "Arthur has been in the meeting hall since. He has not called for aid, but..."

"Perhaps he will have by the time we get there," Lykopis said easily, walking past him toward the stone stairs. Tristram fell into step behind her. At least, she decided as she walked toward their meeting hall, living at the Wall was more entertaining.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter *** - Slaves of Rome**

Arthur stared down at the parchment in front of him. He'd sent the carrier away long ago with his answer, but it didn't make the fact that he'd have to follow through on that answer any less frustrating. Rome was calling on the newest would be king of Briton, and he'd be foolish not to take the diplomatic route instead of the one that ended in more bloodshed.

_Rome is pleased that you have kept its last outpost safe from the Saxon menace. She wishes to welcome you, Artorius Castus, to discuss the alliances that may be forged in the coming months. I look forward to your visit before the coming of the new year._

He sighed, laying the parchment down on the round table and sitting forward until his head rested against it. For how long would he be a slave to Rome? For how long would he be a free man but still in shackles?

He'd read the letter for the first time many hours ago.

There was simply no response to give. Only one answer would appease the giant that was Rome, and he would need to appease that beast or face the consequences.

"Arthur?" Lancelot called to him, and when he looked up, the man was standing in the doorway, a frown on his lips. He leaned heavily against the doorjam, the day too long for his still healing body. "Your absence is not unnoticed. The rest shouldn't be long. What troubles could weigh this heavy?"

"Roman troubles," Arthur told him, picking up the letter and sliding it along the table. His First Knight closed the door behind him, hesitantly crossing to the table and reading over the words that would mean war or peace for their futures.

"Ah," Lancelot murmured. "An invitation to a bloody wedding or the begging of a bloodier funeral."

"I will ride out in a week's time," Arthur said firmly, knowing the argument that would come from his friend.

"Then you'll ride into a trap," Lancelot argued, sitting down heavily.

"Then I will do so," Arthur agreed. "If I do not return, you will see to Guinevere and the knights? See them home?" He asked, knowing the weight that he laid on the First Knight's shoulder was far less than the weight he might have laid otherwise, if the man had demanded to accompany him.

Lancelot stared at him for a long moment before sighing and hanging his head.

"I will," Lancelot agreed. "But know that if you do not come back, there will be no power in Rome that can stop the reckoning that will come down upon it."

"You will take what we have built, and you will return to your home," Arthur argued, and Lancelot simply inclined his head, staring at his commander. Arthur had seen that look in the past; it was a look that begged challenge.

"Who will you take with you?" Lancelot asked, avoiding the command that he was given.

"No one, if I'm to-"

"That's a bit more than stupid," Lykopis's voice cut Arthur off. The woman was pitched back against the dooframe, an uneasy smile on her face. Lancelot winced at her words, but Arthur knew that they were meant with the best intention, even if they were harsh and biting.

"And not happening," Dagonet agreed, following her through one of the back doors. "I will accompany you."

"Where are we going?" Galahad asked, coming through the main doorway that Lancelot had come through. Gawain was only a few steps behind him. Bors would be along sooner or later, but the man was always late and accustomed to being started without. Arthur didn't doubt that Tristram was somewhere in the room, probably had been for some time, especially with the way he and Lykopis had taken to ghosting each other's shadows.

"Rome," Dagonet said firmly, daring Arthur to contradict him.

"Rome? Didn't we just get out from under the bastards?" Galahad asked, that tone creeping into his voice that made Lykopis glare at him from across the room.

"Scared, brother?" She asked, eyeing him intently for a long moment before he sighed and shook his head. Gawain nudged him in the back.

"Well, might as well see who stole our lives," he said firmly.

"You'll not be going," Arthur countered.

"Eh," Tris's voice cut through the room. "Let the boy stretch his legs."

"I will not place you once again in the hands of Rome. Not when you've just started finding yourselves."

"So take those who aren't," Dagonet countered. Arthur eyed the big man. Truly, he'd not been the same since that day on the ice. It was as if some chill had crept into Fulciana's limbs in that water and right into Dagonet's chest. He had lived, but someone else had died. Arthur didn't know how to deal with the fallout of that.

"I am going," Tristram said firmly, and not even Arthur argued the statement, but the way Lykopis glared at him a moment was more argument than anyone would have put up.

"I will prepare," Dagonet said simply before leaving the room.

"Well, I'm going," Gawain insisted, but Arthur held up a hand.

"Too many will make it look like I have brought all of my generals. It would be best to keep the party small. If Dagonet, Tristram and I cannot get ourselves out of a situation, one more body will make little difference." Gawain nodded, but his face flickered in hurt at being dismissed.

"If I could, my knights, I would have you all at my side until the end of my days," Arthur said, and slowly, they agreed. Bors stumbled in a few minutes later, and he'd raged at the idea of Rome, but had quieted in the end.

Lykopis was the first to leave, as she usually was. Being inside too long made her itch, and she slipped away as Arthur and his knights shared their quiet moments. Their closeness with the Roman commander had made her uncomfortable until that day at Badon Hill, when he'd stood alone on a rise, shouting their war cry as if it was his own, defying Rome and God and the Saxons.

Now, well, now it just made her feel like that much more of an outsider. She'd been allowed to live in the fort. No one had questioned it, with her brother staying and the quiet way she and Tristram seemed to understand each other since Dinadan.

That would darken anyone's mood, she supposed, as she walked along the wall, watching the moon shine off of the grasses that rolled away in all directions. That was calm, welcoming. Everything that she'd ever known was out there. No one to summon her. No one to lay responsibility at her feet. No one's eyes on her. She turned again, eyeing the fort that was quickly becoming a village. Woad men and women came and went, but mostly they just came.

Some had taken up houses. Others jobs. More just popped in to trade or bring news, but still, boarding houses were being build for the ones that didnt' have homes of their own yet. Arthur was a noble man, she had to admit. He was uncomfortable sleeping on a bed when he knew there were people under his protection that slept on the ground.

In there, she had people. She had sound and conversation and for the first time in her life, she had friends that did not shy from her nature. But in there, she had eyes on her, eyes she could feel even now.

"Come out of the dark, little bird," she muttered, and felt him shift in the shadows until he was in the moonlight, leaning against a column of stone the name of which Galahad had told Lykopis time and time again.

"Leaving?" He asked, those sharp eyes sliding out into the forest. Out to Dinadan, she was sure. It really was a sad thing. That day in a not so different forest, they'd been willing to die for each other. They'd been willing to leave this world so that the other might live and now...

Well, the Roman woman had done her work very well with him, hadn't she?

"No," she said on a sigh. "When Arthur leaves for Rome, I'll follow as far as the port and see if he'll talk with me."

"Do not apologise for me," he said simply. She eyed him a long moment.

"Do you think I'd apologise for you?" she asked. After a long pause, she continued. "If there's an apology to be had, it's mine. I didn't pay attention."

"You didn't fall in love with a Roman," he countered. He clucked his tongue and shook his head out at the tree line as if Dinadan was right there and not across hundreds of miles. "He's always been an idiot."

"Agreed," Lykopis said easily. "Love is for children, and he's been a child since I sewed him up."

"Hm," Tristram gave a non-commital grunt, a sound that was half agreement and half heartache.

"He will learn," she said simply. "And when he does, he will come find you. If I've learned anything about him in fifteen years, it is that Dinadan learns his mistakes and returns smelling like a perfumed whore." She felt Tris's eyes slide over to her and for a moment, she thought he might push her over the wall. She was pleased when he just chuckled under his breath.

"Don't stay out all night. You make the pup nervous." Tristram said, leaving her alone on the wall. She sighed and leaned heavily against the wall behind her. Galahad was always nervous. He had been since they'd left Sarmatia to return to Britain. He'd probably been nervous most of his adult life.

She turned and stared out over the forest again. It was a precarious line she walked, there, between freedom and a warmth in the pit of her stomach.

**-Slaves of Rome-**

Arthur had never been more pleased to see the end of a voyage in his life. The small cargo vessel they'd taken more often saw him vomiting over the side while Lykopis laughed at him than anything else.

"You will find your way back to Badon Hill?"

"No," Lykopis said easily. "I'll never find my way back. It's not like I found it at sixteen years old."

"Sixteen?" He asked, eyes widening slightly. It had been an ongoing battle between the pair to determine exactly how long he and his men had been oblivious.

"To be fair, I left for a year," she shrugged one shoulder and waved over her head as she walked away. There were people she had to see, and the heavy clink of gold against her skin made her far more pleased than it should have. The weight of four new claws, a gift from Bors, nearly had her running toward the old forge.

Arthut, Dagonet and Tristram had been riding for the better part of two days when they first saw the darker half of the Roman empire. Three men had stopped them on the road, their cloaks pulled up over their heads, but the tell tale bulge of weapons put Arthur on edge.

"Spare some coin for travelers?" One called, and Arthur eyed the big man. Dagonet could be trusted to control himself. Tristram on the other hand...

"No coin here, be gone with you," Dagonet said firmly, hand sliding to the strap that bound his war hammer to the horse.

"I think I see some," the second man countered, sliding the fold in his cloak back to expose a short sword. Arthur sighed atop his horse as Dagonet slipped from the saddle, ignoring the war hammer and gesturing the man forward. The trio chuckled for a long moment before their leader threw himself forward.

With a maneuver that should have been too quick for such a man, Dagonet caught his sword wrist and twisted, sending the blade to the ground. Another quick pivot and heave and the man was rolling down a short rise in the hill. Dag considered the other two a long moment before they too, launched themselves at the big man. Another crack and a sick slush of skin against metal later, one man lay with a broken arm, his sword twisted into the flesh into his friend.

"Dagonet," Arthur said firmly, eyeing the blood that ran from the man's shoulder and dripped down the length of the blade.

"He'll live," Dag said simply, turning back to his war horse, that was staring disinterestedly down at one of the men. The wind blew thickly over the land as Arthur dismounted, his cape swinging wild behind him as he stared down at the men. He crouched down in front of one of them, his stoic frown in place.

"You will leave this place," Arthur said firmly. "You will no longer bother travelers on the road, and you will return-" He stopped short, a cry on the wind drawing him from his menacing of the bandit. "What is that?"

"Wha's wha," the man asked, eyes darting away. The cry came again, carried like a wraith on the wind.

"Tristram," Arthur barely had spoken the word before the knight had burried heels into his mount and disappeared over a rise. It wasn't long before he'd come back, slight arms wrapped around his waist as he rode. Arthur eyed his scout as he neared. His normally stoic face was grim, twisted into a grimace that Arthur had never seen on the man's face before. Barely visible behind him were a set of legs, both thrown over one side of the great beast, mud lined skirts bouncing as the Tris drew the beast up short.

"Wha's tha'?" Arthur asked the man a this feet, mimicking the way his words clipped themselves at the end. Dagonet met Tristram as the horse leaned down to chomp at the grass. Arthur watched as the big man reached behind their scout and plucked a slip of a woman from behind him, dark hair a riot of curls, matted to her head with mud. She squeeled as he touched her, nearly falling to the ground instead of standing on her feet. Her arms were free, but there was yet a gag in her mouth.

"Tristram," Arthur chided, gesturing to the gag in her mouth.

"You take it out," Tristram said with distaste, sliding off the opposite side of his horse and eyeing the shrieking thing with disgust. Arthur left the man at his feet, crossing to the woman who had crawled backwards a few feet.

"Be still," he said easily, crouching in front of her, one hand out hesitantly in front of him. He drew the gag slowly, only to have the woman scream, an ear splitting thing that made him consider shoving the gag back in her mouth. Instead, he clamped a hand down around her mouth, mindful of the teeth. "My name is Artorius Castus, and by God, I will not hurt you." The woman continued to sob, but she nodded at him, her eyes clearing slightly.

"Castus?" She asked hesitantly after a long crying session. "Artorius Castus, the man from Briton?" She asked, snot running down her nose and past her lips. Arthur nodded, and her face brightened. "Oh, thank you, Lord, I am saved," she said, head thrown backward, a miserable smile on her lips.

"What happened, lady?" He asked her. The dress she wore, though covered in mud, was far to fine for her to be a peasant.

"I was riding my mare, Aphrodite, when I was beset by these bandits. My guards had fallen behind when I pushed he rinto a gallop, you see. I'm sure father has seen to their punishment by now."

"Where are you from, lady? My men and I will see you safely home before we continue our journey," Arthur offered, and the woman wiped her nose with her sleeve, giving an unlady like snort.

"My father's estate in Rome," she said easily. "He visited you recently on your island. Bishop Germanus." Arthur caught Dagonet's muttered curse behind him, and Tristram pulled himself up into his saddle.

"She rides behind you," Tristram said darkly, eyeing the woman as if she was all the evil in the world. Arthur turned to look at Dagonet, who eyed the woman uneasily.

"Do not look to me in this, Arthur," Dag said simply, and settled himself in his saddle. Arthur sighed and turned back to the dark eyed young woman, who was trying her best to smooth the lay of her dress-a dress that clearly was not fit for riding-and rub at the dirt on her face. He turned his head to the heavens and sighed deeply. He wasn't good with women that simpered and sobbed. So far, he'd been lucky with the women he'd been forced to associate with. Vanora had been the first, and she was all sharp temper and firm jaw. Then there's been Guin-his Guin-that was strong and soft at the same time, even while being quick lipped. Galahad's sister-Tristram's Wolf-was difficult but perhaps the easiest to deal with of all of them.

This woman though, this thing, that clung to his back as they rode, simpering in his ear and speaking of the horrors of being bound for an entire day and a half, was far from tolerable. He'd started thinking Lancelot was right. He'd wronged some forest witch somewhere along the way.

** -Slaves of Rome-**

Even Arthur had to admit that Rome was impressive so far out. The long road they walked was lined with olive trees on either side, and Tris had taken to leaning up and snagging a few every ten or twenty minutes. Tall marble and white stone building rose up out of the ground, shining in the sunlight. Aurelia-Aurelia Claudia Germanus, and you'll hear from my father if you call me girl again, brute-had taken to talking Arthur's ear off. He'd mentioned his wife on more than one occasion, and yet still, she applied herself to his back as though she was his lover.

Dagonet had been sending him dark looks for the last few hours, his mood darkening the closer they came to Rome, and as they passed beneath a large, stone archway, the big man seemed to loose all sense of civility, nearly growling at the men and women who gawked. A man swept forward from the crowd, bowing low in front of Arthur's horse.

"Arthur Castus, my master has sent me to collect you to his estate," the man paused. "He begs your forgiveness for not coming in person, but his favored daughter was stolen from him not three nights previous."

"Lord Arthur brings my father a gift then!" Aurelia proclaimed from behind Arthur. The servant started at seeing the young woman, a wide smile sliding onto his youthful face.

"Aurelia!" He said, straightening quickly. "By the Gods, it is good to see you well."

"By God, Craetus," Aurela said, tightening her grip on Arthur's waist. "I didn't know you were a pagan." Craetus flushed, backing up a few steps uncertainly.

"Of...of course I'm not pagan, a slip of the tongue, nothing more," Craetus murmured as Arthur spurred his horse forward.

"Pity," Aurela said, mostly in Arthur's ear, but the young man's face fell further. "I've come to love pagans." She glanced down at the young man, a smile on her red lips. "Forward Arthur, my father will be pleased to see the pair of us." The commander did as he was instructed, far too ready to have the woman away from him.

"Forget it, boy," Dag said to the young man. The youth startled before looking up at the bigger man. "The girl's trouble." Craetus simply nodded mutely and walked after the horse.

"Eh, do not crush his dreams," Tristram said easily, urging his own horse forward. "This is Rome. What do we know of their practices?"

"Enough," Dag countered as the pair rode through the crowd. Arthur's dark head of hair was just visible through the throng of people.

**-Slaves of Rome-**

As it turned out, Germanus had been pleased with Arthur's return to Rome, and even more pleased with his daughter's return. The posturing that happened after that, not even Tristram could poke fun at. Not even Arthur could stomach the false brotherhood that had fallen between them. As it was, Germanus had insisted that he would see them guided through Rome as royalty. For a week, he had kept to his promise. He had insisted that Arthur wait until he could see a show in the Colosseum, and Arthur had postponed his planned departure by a day to do so.

Arthur wasn't sure what he'd imagined when Germanus had told him before. No man could, really. He'd grown up on Hadrian's Wall, thought that surely this, this great stone structure, was as great as man could build. Except he sat there, on the first tier of the great stone colloseum, as he stared down into the dust and dirt of an arena. Germanus was reclined next to him, under their private box, away from the plebians that drank mulled wine and cheered for something Arthur did not yet know.

"Truly a great day," Germanus said, his eyes watching Arthur and the two knights that flanked him. They'd not taken seats, choosing instead to remain on their feet, their sharp eyes sweeping across the arena as though it was about to do something to snap them up. Of course, Tristram always looked at the world with those eyes, and Dagonet had enough reason to distrust Rome. They all had.

"And why is that, Bishop?" Arthur asked, feeling not for the first time of the day the sickly feeling that came with prolonged exposure to the Bishop.

"The Lark dies today," he said simply, a smile on his lips. "I thought for sure they would stage it while I was in Briton, attending my duties there. I was pleased when I returned to find her still living."

"The Lark?" Arthur asked, but the question went unanswered. Behind him, Dagonet had come forward, that sad frown on his mouth that never seemed to leave. His sharp eyes had caught something, and he turned back to Tristram, jerking his head down at something Arthur couldn't see from his seat.

His two knights switched places, and the darkening that fell over his scout's face made Arthur more uncomfortable. He silently debated if rising to see what they could would be acceptable. The way Germanus's eyes watched in challenge told him the answer, and he kept his seat. He was a King now, and Kings had to do things differently than common men, no matter their curiosities. He stared hard at Tristram as the scout turned toward him, but the man simply shook his head and leaned against his column. Minutes passed, and more and more people flooded the other areas of the collosseum. Shouts for food and drink drowned out conversation, and so Arthur abandoned the idea. Finally, a loud shout broke the noise, and when Arthur looked, a man stood not so far away from him, hands outreached, as he spoke. Over the muttering whispers, Arthur could barely make out the words.

"On this day, on this day, friends, we have a true spectacle!" The crowd roared, and whatever was to be said was lost in the sound. "The Lark"-another roar, this one something that made Arthur's spine shiver at the familiarity-"and the Lion!" The man gestured down into the arena with both hands, where dust was starting to rise up on either side. Decorum be damned, he rose to the edge of his seat enough to see down into the arena as a twin pair of sentinal doors opened on either side. In the darkness within, Arthur could see little until at one end, a large, proud man with a lion's mane wrapped around his neck stepped, a heavy axe in one hand, round shield in another. He wore little else except a skin at his waist. One side of the arena exploded in cheers while the other boo'd, reaching out their hands in a thumbs down gesture.

"A torn crowd," Germanus said, and Arthur noticed for the first time that he too had sat forward.

"That is a woman," Tristram said, drawing Arthur's attention to the other end of the arena. Surely enough, a woman stepped out of the shadow to her own roar from the crowd. She was armored lightly, with leather and studded metal, a small round shield in one hand and a gladius in the other. The bent blade was wicked, even from such a distance. A hush fell upon the crowd as she raised the sword.

"Surely they cannot mean for-" He tried to protest the match, but the scream that rent the air silenced him. "Rus!" She shouted to the crowd, turning in a wide circle. The crowd echoed her scream, and it was a bastardization of something he loved. Tris and Dag had stiffened at the shout, as fierce and angry as Bors ever had been on the field of battle. The Roxolani war cry was not something that either of them had grown up with, but it was something that they'd grown into, taking into their own skin and made their own. Across the arena, the lion echoed her cry, and the pair fell upon each other in a clash of metal and shield that was jarring even to Arthur's arms. The woman was quick, light on her feet and moved in and around the man's strikes. He was stronger, more naturally honed to kill with his battle axe. Dag's eyes followed those swings, his frown deepening.

"He will not tire," Dag said simply. "She will die."

"The Lion never tires," Germanus said, his lips twisted into a smile. "The Lark dies today."

"This is your sport?" Arthur asked quietly, his eyes not leaving the battle. The woman had gotten under a swing, raking the long gladius against the man's left chest. Even from his distance he could see that it was superficial, barely deep enough to draw blood. She'd had to retreat too quickly, pulled the blade back too soon, and she'd gotten kneed roughly in the abdomen for her troubles.

"This is the only sport," Germanus said, his eyes again on the fight. "I will miss seeing her."

"Why? Why pit a man against a woman and call it sport?" Arthur asked, something hot flaring in his stomach.

"She will not die otherwise, and a gladiatorix with too much love from the crowd is a danger," Germanus said easily. "She was not meant to survive this long." His eyes turned toward the two Sarmatians. "Your kind are difficult to kill." It wasn't a confirmation as much as it was taunting. They'd known when she'd used their war cry.

"How long has this been going on?" Arthur asked.

"The games?" Germanus asked with a scoff. "Since before my time. That one has been in the arena for fourteen years."

"Fourteen..."

"Of course, the rules will not let her step into the arena more than once a week. The hoard does not like watching defeated men suffer so they are given time to lick their wounds." Down on the arena floor, the Lion had delt a nearly crushing blow with his axe, the sharp edge catching her round shield and sending her down hard to the ground, pinning her between the ground and the force of the weapon. Dag winced from his position against a column.

"That will be it," he said simply, turning away and closing his eyes. Arthur had to agree as the big man raised the axe once more and the woman lay seemingly dazed on the ground, shield held out at an angle, her gladius barely against her fingertips. The Lion paused, his eyes rising to the man who had spoken earlier. Quickly, he held out his hand, thumb extended downward, in an echo of half of the collosseum.

"Ah, well, now she dies," Germanus said simply, laying back again. "I had hoped it would last longer." Arthur turned to stare at the man a moment, caught somewhere between disgust and awe. A roar took up on the other end of the collosseum, and for a moment, Arthur thought it was at the woman's death. When he looked down, drawn by morbid curiosity, he saw her, sitting upright with one hand curled around the big man's thigh. Blood speckled the ground between them as the big axe fell beside them. Guts writhed on the ground, steaming and glistening against the sunlight. Her upturned face was speckled red with blood, her face a grimace. The Lion's body fell forward onto her, painting her arms and front in his blood.

"Smart girl," Tristram murmured. Dag turned back toward it, his frown deepening again as the woman slipped the dead weight off of her and stood.

"Do you have no honor?" The speaker shouted down into the arena. The crowd fell silent at his wrath. "You lay beaten, and yet you refuse to die with honor!"

"There is no honor in death," Dagonet said simply, and Arthur couldn't help his nod.

"What does he mean, Germanus?" Arthur found himself asking. The Bishop had sat forward again, a frown on his face.

"A gladiator that has been given the sentence of death is to grip the thigh of their better, lower their weapon, and greet death. She is a snake. They will kill her now as punishment."

"Punishment? For living?" Arthur asked, but Germanus ignored him. "Punish her in a different way. Make her a slave."

"She was a slave," Germanus said easily. "She refused to serve her purpose. The arena was only meant to scare her into obediance. It was her own nature that saw her here for so long."

"Then make her one again. Truly there is no fate worse than something you'd rather die instead of do."

"No one would take her again," Germanus said. "You cannot keep a slave you cannot control."

"I would," Arthur offered quickly, and he heard the chuckle from behind him as Tristram laughed at him. Surely he wasn't becoming that predictable in his age?

"You would?" Germanus asked, but it wasn't really a question. Rather, it was a challenge. "Of course you would, you are collecting these barbarians on your little island."

"Then let me have this one," Arthur said firmly, eyes going back to the woman in the arena. The gates had risen on both sides, and within the inky black, Arthur could imagine he saw the glinting of metal. "You owe me, Germanus. A gift for a guest. I brought you Alecto that day. I brought your daughter, safe from the men that had taken her." Germanus's face soured as he stared at Arthur. Finally, he stood, leaving Arthur and his two knights alone.

"You push him too far, Arthur," Tristram cautioned. He had a point; Arthur was sure. They were far from their own home, with little hope for rescue should the Roman decide that he wanted their lives.

"You would have me do nothing while the woman dies?" He asked, watching as three more men stepped into the arena, two at her front, one at her back. They were smaller than the Lion had been, less intimidating, but still would bring an end to the woman.

"Yes," Tris said, but the way he turned to watch spoke another answer. Arthur nodded to Dagonet, who only smiled at him. It was a jarring thing, one of Dagonet's smiles. Powerful and so very rare that they might have been a ghost story.

"Hault!" The speaker cried into the arena, both hands outward. Slowly, his thumbs turned, and the men slipped back into the shadow as quickly as they had come. The woman turned, eyes finding the speaker, rage clear on her face even from such a distance. "You have been spared the arena!" He shouted, and the crowd screamed out in either joy or anger, Arthur couldn't be sure. On the ground, the woman's scowl deepened as she turned and disappeared back into the shadow beneath the collosseum.

"This is the last favor I do for Arthur Castus," Germanus said as he laid back on his lounge. "But I do not think you will find it a favor later." He chuckled under his breath and cast one of his arms across his eyes.

"Either way, I thank you, Bishop," Arthur said simply and eyed Tris and Dag, who seemed far more interested in the latest goings on in the arena than listening to anything the Bishop had to say.

The rest of the fights were unremarkable, one-against-one boughts that ended in death less than half the time, but were always fair enough in Arthur's eyes. Men fought men. Women fought women. The longer he watched the proceedings, the forced jovality and circumstance, he wondered at the woman who's life he had bought with a favor. She showed none of the frivolity as the ones that followed. She had not bowed to the orator or saluted the crowd. She had not waited for her dismissal or thanked the orator for his favor of a fight.

As he lay down that night, his last in Rome, he worried that perhaps, once again, he had taken on more than he had a mind to deal with. Tristram certainly had thought as much, but Tristram had felt the same way about their wolf. A smile quirked Arthur's lips. Now his scout could hardly wait to return, though he wouldn't admit it.

Still, Germanus's smile that afternoon haunted him into his dreams.

"Arthur!" Jols's voice cut through his sleep and startled him awake. With a sigh, he called back to the man and glared at the window behind the head of his bed as if it had done some great offense. "Arthur! Germanus sent his secretary, he asks that you join him in the stables as quickly as possible."

"For what could he be awake this early?" Arthur grouse, but forced himself from the bed to dress.

Morning was warm, at least, he had to admit as he stepped out into the early sunlight that Rome had to offer. The stables were not so far away, and while he'd thought Tristram and Dagonet would have met him there, his knights fell in step with him the moment he'd left the large villa.

"You have doomed us," Tristram commented when Arthur eyed the pair oddly. Dagonet simply frowned more deeply, and it was that silence that had Arthur wishing he'd left his heavy cloak behind. It was too hot in Rome, far too hot.

"Arthur!" Germanus said, arms extended as he embraced him in the way that all Romans seemed to want to embrace him: half an arms length away. Their first night in Rome, Jols had commented that it was close enough to be able to slip a dagger between his ribs but far enough away that his barbarian smell might not touch them. At first, he'd laughed, but now, he had to agree.

"Your new slave," Germanus said wtih a grand gesture behind him, turning enough so that his wide berth no longer concealed a girl who knelt on the ground behind him. Woman, really, Arthur told himself, because she certainly was that. Long hair, a dark ruddy brown-if he could truly tell through the dust and blood-falling around sharp shoulders and wide, flaring hips.

She'd been forced to her knees, feet out behind her, shackled to a bar to keep them apart. Her hands were behind her back, disappearing into that wild tangle of hair, but he could only guess that they too, were bound. There was a collar about her neck, thick and bulky and attached to chains that a guard on either side held. The two men were wary but relaxed, and as Germanus swept around her, they moved to block his view as much as possible without being insulent.

"Why is she thus bound?" Arthur asked, and either guard glanced quickly from him to the woman on her knees.

"Lark is a bloody creature," Germanus said simply, nodding to his own guards to take over holding her chains. Watching the woman, Arthur had to agree. She'd been stripped of the gladiatorix armor and given little more than the leather than Guinevere's people wore into battle to hold themselves in place. Her eyes-startling blue-had been smeared around with khol, giving her a more exotic look. Arthur had to wonder what the arena-master thought he'd bought her for.

"Hold her tightly," one of the original pair cautioned. One listened, the other did not, and the chain on one side of her neck loosened until it nearly sagged to the dirt. The pair of guards shared a look, their eyes then flickering to Lark, who glanced up at them with a quirk to her lips. In an instant, she had pivoted, rolled backward over her hands, caught the slack of the chain from her neck and rolled again, forcing the unlucky guard forward onto his belly in the dirt.

She rolled again, back over her hands and pinned the man with a knee across his throat.

"Do you see?" Germanus asked, voice rising as he pointed to the girl who was hauled bodily off of the unlucky bastard that had failed to follow directions. The two guards that had originally held her pulled her backward, pinning her to the ground, her hands still bunched behind her back.

"Can't behave for five minutes?" One asked her, and she stared up at him unashamed.

"Is it my fault that he couldn't listen?" She asked, and Arthur barely heard the words before Tristram swore and left the stable. Dagonet eyed the scout's retreating back before he stiffled a chuckle. "Should have killed me in the arena."

"You don't know what you're talking about," the other of the pair told her, easing up off of her shoulder.

"How many do I have to kill before I know what I'm talking about?" she retorted as they eased her back to her knees and took the chains in hand again. She glared up at Germanus who had come to stand in front of her, a riding crop in his hand. She looked up at him a moment, teeth bared in something Arthur couldn't quite call a smile.

"Insolent dog," Germanus breathed and brought the crop across her face, forcing her head to the side. Arthur tensed behind him, and he could see Dagonet's hand curl into a fist out of the corner of his vision. The woman turned her head back, teeth still bared, stained pink with blood. "You will pay for this far more than I have," Germanus told Arthur as he turned back to him.

"That I do not doubt, Bishop."

"Perhaps you should learn to beat the dog before you get out on the road with it. I know you have a soft heart for such beasts," Germanus held out the crop.

Dagonet saved him the dishonor of taking the crop as he put himself between Arthur and Germanus. "Arthur would not dirty his hands. Her punishment will fall to me," the big man said. "And you're so masterful at it, I doubt she would think to disobey again so soon." Germanus bristled at having his games interrupted, but he could say little to the compliment.

"Then take the beast," Germanus ordered. The pair of guards eyed him for a moment before one handed him the length of chain, held taught.

"Tris," Dagonet said softly, and from the shadow, Tristram came. Arthur smiled at his scout. There were few times that Arthur actually knew the man was in a room if he didn't want it known. They took either side of her chain prison and pulled tight, neither wanting to take on the shame of being brought to the ground because they weren't paying attention. She eyed them a long moment, looking for a weakness and finding none in either man.

"You're ready to leave?" Arthur asked both knights, who nodded, eyes sliding to their horses. Neither would tell their commander, but they'd never unpacked their saddle bags. Rome made them more itchy than they would have ever wanted to admit. "Get her a horse." He turned from them then to face the Bishop, whose face had creased in annoyance.

"You put her on a horse and she will be gone," he said.

"Then she will be gone," Arthur agreed. "Afterall, she is mine to do with as I wish."

"I belong to no one," she said, pulling at her chains to check for weakness. "Kill me, Roman, or you will regret it for the rest of your numbered days." Arthur considered her a moment, and simply nodded, turning to his horse, saddled and ready.

"Get her a horse," he called over his shoulder. "Bind her down." He ignored the thrashing and the yelling from behind him until the sound of Tristram's sword leaving it's sheath was followed by a thud and silence. They road out from Rome with an extra horse, its load unconscious.

-Wolf's Moon: Slaves of Rome-

Arthur was blissful for an entire three hours. Three hours of hard riding that was more enjoyable than anything he had done in a week-a month really. Then, the girl woke.

"Arthur," Dagonet said quietly, his voice strong enough to carry through the wind. Arthur eased his horse down, letting it fall into a walk as he turned in the saddle. He sighed up into the sky, sending a prayer into the clouds.

"Untie her," he said as he dismounted. "We'll rest the horses."

Tristram was the unluckier of the two knights. Dagonet had taken Arthur's horse from him and was removing its saddle, and so, the task of unbinding the woman fell onto his shoulders. Light eyes glared at him as he drew closer, and he could see the way her jaw tightened.

"You will listen," he murmured, voice hard. "I am going to ungag you, and unbind your legs from the saddle. You will not kick me. You will not bite me." He said it as though it was fact, and the woman only relaxed her face, slipping on the mask he'd seen her wear when she stepped into the arena.

It was a slack jawed look, half dull and half serene. It was a look that belied emotion, and it was that look that made him tense. The gag came first, and like a good child, she did not lunge for him or bite at his fingers. Her legs came second, and just as he'd loosed her second leg, she rolled off the opposite side of the saddle, managing to land on her feet and take two staggering steps away before she double over and fell to the ground on her side.

"I did not say that you would not run," Tristram said. "Because I knew that you could not." And as she lay on the ground, sharing the blame equally between the dark eyed knight and her jellied legs, she knew that he was right. She'd been in a saddle as a girl, no more than four years old, her father had put her in a saddle. He'd wanted a son. She had been more than happy to fill that void, especially if it meant that she'd been placed on the back of that pale mare that her father prized.

Except in the arena, there had been no need to put her on a horse, and her legs had gone numb long before she'd even woken. She started when the dark eyed man crouched in front of her.

"You will not run," he said simply, voice calm, like he was talking to her horse or a stray cat. "You will listen to Arthur, and you will behave yourself."

"And you will get away from me before I cut your own cock off and stuff it up your ass," she threatened, but he only quirked the corner of his mouth at her. She had to admit that the threat was just a threat. Her hands were bound. She had no weapon, and he moved fluidly enough to tell her that she wasn't going to get his dagger away from him in enough time to cut the man.

"Hostility will get you killed," another man said, drawing her attention away from the one that still smirked at her. She wondered, for a moment, if she'd threatened someone that could kill her. Except, her mind told her, no one had been able to kill her yet. Perhaps, something had itched at the back of her thoughts for years, perhaps she was immortal. This man though, this man had stolen her from where she'd find death. She'd been waiting, waiting for so very long, for someone to find her. Someone that could kill her. Anyone good enough to just...

"She's lost," the third man said, drawing her from the clouds.

"My name," the second man said. "Is Arthur Castus, and you will accompany me until we get back to Briton. From there, I don't care where you go, but I will not leave you out where the Romans can take you back."

"And by what power, Arthur Castus, do you claim my life. Gold? Coins that you earned by trading other slaves?" She asked, eyes staring hard at him.

"I offer you freedom, and you do nothing but spit like a viper," he said, annoyed.

"My freedom was offered!" She shouted, lunging forward on her burning legs only to be caught around the shoulder and forced down again. "I had it!"

"Your death was offered, girl," the third man interrupted her. "Arthur saved your life. Be grateful."

"And you?" She asked, those sharp eyes turning toward him, taking in the deep set of his jaw, the sad and tired sag of his eyes. "Has he saved your life? Has he stolen away your one last freedom?"

The big man started, staring at her a long while before turning back to see to the horses. She watched him go with a grim sense of satifaction before turning her attention back to Arthur, who crouched in front of her with one hand on the ground, as if the world had just gone out from under him and he needed it to balance. She felt guilty for a moment-a very brief moment-as the man stared after his friend.

"Don't tell me you couldn't tell," she said. "I don't know him. I don't like him. I'd kill him if you untie me, and even I can tell that man wants to die."

"You know nothing," the first said, watching Arthur who finally seemed to shake himself.

"I have given you my name, I would ask yours, if we're to travel together."

"That will not happen," she said. "Call me Lark, because that is who you bought."

"I bought no one," Arthur countered, voice hard, and for a moment, it seemed as though he was more angry with the idea of buying her than her prodding at his pride. "I do not travel with people whose names I do not know."

"Then you can't travel with me," she countered. It wasn't as though...

"Do you remember your name?" The first man asked her, and he caught her so off guard that she stared at him for a breath too long without answering.

"You don't remember your name," Arthur said, voice too close to sympathy for Lark to be comfortable with.

"Lark was the name they gave me when they first sold me. I've been known as Lark, Roxolani, Morrigan. Your people, Roman, called me Slave. Take your pick because any name will be more true than my own." She said, hopeing to harden hin to her once again, but it failed as he simply sat back onto the grass, legs propped up in front of him.

"This is Tristram," he finally said, pointing to the dark eyed man beside her. "That is Dagonet." He paused a moment. "I was not lying for your benefit. When we get to Briton, you will be free to do what you will. If you leave my company now, Rome's hands will follow you, and you will find yourself alive in a dungeon for the rest of your days. Follow me, willingly, and perhaps, when you remember your name, you'll have someone to tell it to."

She considered him a moment before finally relaxing into the ground. Her hands were still bound behind her, but it wouldn't be difficult to roll backward, gain much needed distance and lash out. Except, perhaps, something told her, it wouldn't be so bad to remember a name.

"Fine enough," she said at last. Afterall, if, when she reached this Briton, she still longed for that one final freedom, she could seek it somewhere other than the arena. "A deal, then?" She asked, and Arthur raised his chin. "Give me my hands, and I won't disappear. I won't kill your men, and if you take this collar from around my neck, I will ignore that your man said he was going to be taking flesh my my bones."

"And you will behave," Tristram said easily, in that calm voice that was slowly making her want to either kill him or make him break, make him consider using something more than that bored tone.

"The women, they don't much care for you, do they?" She asked, and nearly immediately, Arthur threw his head back in laughter. Tristram himself just quirked the corner of his mouth again, staring into space as though he was lost somewhere in his own mind.

"No, but the wolves don't mind his smell overmuch," Dagonet offered. He smiled slightly over his shoulder. Arthur made a choking noise, and just as quickly, Tristram was up and stalking toward the bigger man. No blows were exchanged, but Tristram took the lead of his own horse rather forcefully and mounted up. He was gone over a rise in the land before anyone spoke again.

"I didn't..." Lark caught herself. "If he can't deal with the consequence of being a domaneering ass, he shouldn't act the part."

"You didn't hurt him," Arthur said, eyeing her for a moment. "He's uncomfortable and not admitting his own feelings at the moment." He rose, drawing a dagger from his side and moving around to cut her hands free. She felt the blade slip against the outside of her wrist, and as the rope gave way, she twisted, catching the blade in her palm and wretching it free from his hands. Blood pooled and ran between her fingers as she flipped the weapon, bringing the blade up and back.

"Remember, Arthur Castus, that while you own my life, I owned yours, right now," she looked back over her shoulder at the commander, who swallowed against the tip of the blade. "For the breadth of a breath." She opened her palm, letting the dagger and blood fall to the ground. Arthur relaxed behind her, dropping the rope that had bound her wrists.

"Keep it," Arthur said as he straightened up. Lark looked over her shoulder at the man. Surely he couldn't... "Here," he said, bending forward and picking up the dagger, holding it out to her. She stared at it a long moment before taking it and standing.

"You don't want me armed," she said easily.

"I don't want you useless should we need you," Arthur countered. "You've already pledged to not kill me or my men. Why should I fear you?"

"I swore to not kill your men; I was mute on the subject of your life," she said.

"Go on, kill me then," he offered, holding his arms out wide. "You're armed, and if you're quick enough, you could get to your horse before Dagonet could kill you. Of course, Tristram could kill you no matter how far you'd gotten before he knocked an arrow."

"Oh, I don't know," she said, holding the handle of the dagger out to him. "Your guard dog seems to be watching me close enough. I think he could probably get that war hammer off of the ground in time to cave my skull in."

"I said if you're quick enough," Arthur agreed, taking the offered dagger and tucking it back into his belt. "Best remove temptation."

"Best," she echoed and turned to sit back down. Tristram had built up a fire, and Dagonet had settled the horses down into the grass.

They rested the horses in silence, the three men relishing their release from Rome and the woman trying to decide if she liked the feel of free hands and feet or if the phantom ache against her wrists and ankles was because she missed the familiar. Her neck ached as she bent forward to take an offered piece of bread, and she knew the answer. No, she did not miss it. The ropes chaffed. They bit deeply when she wasn't still, and when was she ever still?

"You bleed," Dagonet said, eyeing her critically.

"Everyone bleeds, or did you think you were a god?" She asked, glaring up at him. Even seated, he was tall enough to make her look up at him.

"No, you're bleeding," he said, gesturing at her. She knew. How could she not know? The game she'd played with the Roman guards in the stable hadn't been without pain, and her pathetic escape attempt had ripped open any scabbing around her neck. Blood had soaked into the rope, and the first few drops were escaping down across her skin. He stood and she shifted sideways, putting more distance between heself and the big man as he retrieved something from his saddle bag and returned to her. "Be still." He chided, drawing a short dagger from his boot.

She eyed it critically, but was still as he pushed the mass of tangled hair and blood and dirt from her shoulder and slid the blade between her skin and the rope. It cut deftly with a short tug, tearing the fibers away from the scabs they'd long ago become adhered to.

"How long has that been on you?" Arthur asked, eyeing the strip of tortured flesh that rung around her throat.

"How long was I in the arena?" She asked, and Arthur started at the question. They fell silent again as Dagonet insisted about rubbing a stinging paste into the wound. Even with the biting pain from rough fingers and the ache from torn skin, she felt better. Nothing to hold her. Nothing to mark her a slave. Perhaps Arthur had been honest with her. Perhaps he'd...

"Did the Arena Master...did he tell you how long I'd been there?" She asked.

"No, but Bishop Germanus mentioned some fourteen years," Arthur offered, and she nodded. It had felt longer, but surely she wasn't older than fourty, and thirty felt right. She was thirty years old. They sat there longer than they'd planned, and as the sun started to disappear over a rise, Arthur ordered a hault to their progress for the day. Tristram looked tense but nodded and disappeared into the nothingness of the fading twilight.

"Where does he go?" Lark asked, uneasy at the disappearance. In the dark, men could appear like wraiths.

"Scouting," Dagonet said simply, turning from her to the fire he was trying to start despite the dampness that hung in the air. "You are safe. Tristram will see anything coming from long off."

"And who watches your scout?" She asked, but the big man ignored her, turning his attention back to the flint and tinder. Arthur gave her meat from a pack that had been given to him for travel in Rome, and she picked at it for a moment before tossing it off down the roll of the hill. She took the bread he offered from his own pack, and in silence, she ate.

Lark slept that night for the first time in a long time, without chains supporting her arms. Laying on the ground, free to toss and turn as she would, she stared up at the stars, stars that she hadn't seen since she was a child, stars that were so unfamiliar they made her uneasy. She sighed, and rolled over again.

Arthur woke the next morning feeling sluggish. His stomach protested as he stood up, swaying on his feet a moment before falling back to his knees and heaving violently into the dirt. He stared down at the grass, arms shaking and head throbbing in time with his heart beat. Vaguely, he could hear Dagonet snoring in the distance, and Tristram was as quiet as always. He scanned camp, panicked when his scout was missing.

"Tris?" He called, forcing himself back to his knees and finally to his feet. He found the scout with the horses, sweating and leaning back against a saddle. "Are you well?"

"Un," Tristram grunted, turning to his side to dry heave into the air. "Never trust a Roman," he said once he'd finished.

"Never trust your own stomach," Lark countered. Arthur jumped. He'd missed her standing with her horse, brushing out the animal's mane with calloused fingers. "The food is too rich, and when they ride out, they soak the meat in salt. You will not die." She said easily.

"You knew this?" Arthur asked, holding his rolling stomach.

"Everyone in Rome knows this. It is a trick they play in the arena," she said simply, shrugging one shoulder before going back to her study of the beast she'd been given to ride out upon.

"How long?" Tristram asked, glaring up at her.

"The vomiting for a day, you'll be weak another day after," she said simply.

"Too long," Arthur said simply, turning away and staggering back toward the dying fire. Dagonet had sat upright, stretching his arms over his head and watching Arthur oddly.

"Are you unwell?" He asked, eyeing his commander.

"Too much salt in the meat, Lark claims," Arthur said. "Did you not eat?" Dagonet shook his head.

"I do not trust the Romans," he said. "I've something that will calm the stomach, let me-"

"Tristram is ill as well," Arthur cut in. "If you could make a tea?"

"I will boil water," Dag said simply, and moved to his saddle bag. Dag spent the better part of the morning preparing a tea as Arthur lay beneath his cape. He'd taken fever not long after waking, and Dag fretted far more than he should have, if Lark had any opinion on the matter. Tris had waved of Dagonet's tea, and he had groused about for most of the morning. He hadn't developed a fever though, so Dag was willing to let the silent man lay in his own misery. He'd fallen alseep not long after.

Dag sat, stirring a pot over a small fire. Lark sat not far off, watching Arthur as he slept. "He will not die," Lark said simply.

"I did not say that he would," Dag countered.

"He will not die," she repeated, eyeing the big man before going back to staring at the commander. They sat in silence most of the afternoon, until the sun had just started to bath the earth in a soft, golden glow. Lark had remained still most of the day, choosing to lounge in the sunlight. Dag couldn't help but smile when she was turned away. It was a childishness that the young woman lay in, relishing the glow of the sun.

Arthur's fever had broken by the time the sun had set, but still he slept on. Tristram had woke long ago, and Dag had helped the man to walk into the ring of firelight. Still weak and aching, he'd proped himself up against a saddle bag and simply sat there, glaring at the flame.

"Don't look so mighty not up on your horses," a voice called from the shadow. Dag's head shot up, eyes flickering through the darkness, looking for the voice. "Stole our girl and got yer own, then?"

"Come out, coward," Dagonet called, and a echo of laughter cut through their camp. Tris sat forward weakly, forcing himself to his feet.

"'cept our girl was worth a lot more, was'n she boys?" Another voice asked from the dark, and Dag could make out at least four other voices calling out in agreement.

"Easy," Dag called softly to Tris, who had drawn his blade, grip half-hearted and lazy. The big man eyed his scout for a moment before glancing to Arthur, who slept on the other side of their campfire despite the disruption. He looked to the slave-girl, watching where she stood, back to the fire, staring out into the darkness as though nothing was wrong in the world. With his war-hammer too far away, tucked into the saddle of his horse, he'd be little help to Arthur. Tris, he supposed, might be able to defend himself, but it was difficult to defend a man when you were well. "Girl?" He called to her, and she turned slightly, glancing over her shoulder at him. A smile quirked just the corner of her mouth before her attention was drawn again to the dark.

They came through the dark into the firelight, six in all, and Dag was relieved to see not a bow between them. This type always did like the hand to hand of it all, the blood beneath the finger nails. A smile broke his lips as the first came at him. He tossed the first man in time to catch the hand of a second that brought a short sword down toward his neck.

Somewhere, be it on the edge of their firelight or the edge of the world for all it mattered, he heard a quick grunt and scream. Dag crashed his head into the second man's, sending him to the ground in time for the first to have regained his feet and come at him again.

"Arthur!" Tris's panicked voice cut through Dag to his bones. Tris did not panic, and the single word was what they all feared each time they entered battle. Dagonet turned toward his unconscious commander, jaw falling slack at the sight. A man stood over Arthur, both hands gripping the hilt of a long sword.

Tris was too far, and the man that he'd squared off against had two blades that he seemed to be more than capable of wielding. The girl had been either thrown or forced backward, toward his side of the flame. He wasn't sure who screamed Arthur's name. It might have been himself. It might have been Tristram or even the girl, but it was the girl that rolled forward toward the flame, gripped a burning branch and lept over the blaze, bringing it around and smashing it into the side of a head.

The man crumbled sideways, screaming and flailing. The blade fell and was snatched from the air with a hand that brought it spinning around to split another from shoulder to sternum. Dag grunted as the final man burried a short dagger into his shoulder. He turned, pulled the blade from his shoulder, and gripped the man by his throat.

"Fool," he said simply before thrusting the dagger forward and through the man's chest. No one moved after, and all he could hear was the dull crackling of their fire. Tristram's man was dead on the ground, and the man was kneeling in the grass, emptying his stomach of acid. "Are you well?"

"Moved too quickly," Tris said and nodded as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Arthur?"

"He's fine," Lark said. "No one touched him." Dag nodded, but he crossed the camp to check to assure their commander was breathing. He sat back after, glancing from Tristram to Arthur and back again. Tris was the first to start chuckling, and Dag followed quickly.

"You've lost your minds," Lark told them as she bent over one of the corpses. The pair of knights laughed themselves out before Tris settled himself back into his saddle bag.

"Probably," he said, and Lark eyed him over her shoulder for a moment before going back to stripping the body of valuables

"We do not loot," Dag said firmly, but the woman ignored him. He couldn't bring himself to stop her as she strapped a short blade to her calf and buckled another to her hip. A series of daggers she rolled into a bit of leather and tied up with boot laces.

"What are you doing?" Tris finally asked as she returned from dragging the man away.

"You want to sleep with the dead?" She asked as she went through another body.

"Would not be the first time," Dag said. Lark ignored them, stripping another before dragging the corpse off into the darkness.

"Useful," Tris said when the woman was gone.

"Hardly," Dag countered.

"Defended Arthur when we could not," Tristram said, and the pair fell into silence for a long while.

"I don't like her with weapons," Dagonet said as the woman came and went again.

"If she was going to kill us in our sleep, this morning would have been time," Tris said.

"Too easy," Lark said, coming from the darkness again. The last of the men had been drug away from the camp. "If I'm going to kill you, you'll be awake, well and armed."

"A honorable killer," Dag said as he inclined his head.

"Isn't that all that separates these men from you?" She asked. "Or is it that you follow this man instead of another?" She settled down in the grass, staring up at the sky. It wasn't long until Arthur stirred, asking for water and food, a good sign, if Dag had ever seen one.


	12. Chapter 12

**My sincerest apologies for the length of time that this chapter took to get out. I have pretty excuses that I could lay at your feet, but they would just be excuses. Additionally, this is possibly the last chapter that you will receive until December. The reason, my fair lords and ladies, is that NaNo is upon us. National November Writer's month, and I have a WIP that I have been avoiding for far too long to write fanfiction. Wish me luck and maybe you'll get another chapter on All Hallows Eve as I hand out candy to the kiddies. **

**Chapter 12 - A Man's Honor**

Lykopis had spent the better part of her morning glaring out from the overhang of the forge. The Roman woman was out there, walking through the different venders, fawning over the finer quality products and turning her nose up at anything that she could have found in higher quality in her precious Rome. And yet, it wan't her that Lykopis wanted to kill.

Dinadan walked beside her, a wide smile on his face, as the woman lead him around, showing him the different riches of her little market. She had aged, and the wrinkles around her eyes made Lykopis chuckle the first time she'd seen them. The skin hung loose around her chin and arms, and her hands were pale and wrinkled. Yet Dinadan looked to her as if the sun somehow shined from her dark hole.

It was nauseating.

"Ya buyin' something or you leaving?" a voice called from within the forge, and she winced. She had been haunting its shadows for the better part of the morning without stepping inside. Ethris had never stood for such loitering before. It was a wonder that it had taken him so long to lose his patience.

When she had first seen the smithy, still standing and still with Ethris's symbol on the overhang, it had warmed a part in her that she would not admit to.

"If you're not buying, leave before I make ya," that voice was as strong as ever but laced with age. Only half thinking, she pulled her ruck sack off of her back and fishing around to the very bottom. Clutching a soft velvet bundle, she pulled it out, and from within the folds, came a delicate metal chain and a deep black stone. Obsidian, he'd told her all those years ago, and the only think dark enough to remind him of her eyes. He'd given it to her to make good on a debt he'd thought he'd owned. Maybe he'd take it as payment.

A man's honor was a powerful thing.

"I'm in the market for a new sword," she said easily, turning away from the crowd, turning away from Dinadan. Her weight of her mother's sword had been missed since it had fallen into the ice.

"If its any sword your after, I have a few finished, but you don't look big enough to lift them girl," he said. When she ducked under the door frame and into the darkness, she saw he hadn't even turned from his forge. He was still a large man, with broad shoulders and large arms, but he had bent in his age. As if life had beaten upon his back until it had forced him forward.

The corner Jaris had once occupied was eerily empty. The boy had only not sat in his chair when he'd been in too much pain to sit.

"I don't buy anything from stock, and I have the time to wait."

"Custom is expensive, especially for little girls that cannot wield a blade," he said firmly. She chuckled at that. It had been the same thing he had said to her all those years ago, when she'd first entered his shop.

"I have payment," she responded. "And I am very specific. I will not buy anything that is not exact. I've heard you're the best for custom work, but if I am wrong, there is a smithy across town."

Of course, she'd been to that smithy the first time she'd been there. His work was passable, but it lacked the finesse that a weapon needed to be both lethal and beautiful. Her aesthetics had been the reason she had come to him instead all those years ago.

"Give me a moment, girl, and we'll talk," he said as he shifted something within the flames. Lykopis nodded and settled down against a small table. It was built solidly, with none of the craftsmanship that he showed his weaponry, but it was branded with his mark as well.

As she sat in the heat, she studied him. He was still a great man, she could see, but there was a weight to him that he should not have held. As he shifted his work from the heat and laid it on end in a barrel of water, she marveled at the site. A long blade, nearly as long as he was, and the span of two of his palms wide. It was a weapon she had never seen before, and with the way he heaved it, she wondered at what type of man could wield it with any success.

"Alright, girl, what blade are you looking for? A short sword perhaps. A short saber?" he looked at her once quickly as he wiped his hands, but his eyes soon returned. A line creased his brow as if he was studying her, and in a moment, she stood, drawing the scabbard of her mother's sword from her hip.

"My weapon was lost in battle," she said, holding the scabbard out in front of her, over her palms. "I was accustomed to its weight and size, but it was awkward in my hands."

"Not made for you," he said, reaching out to take the scabbard. He studied it was a practiced eye. "Old and Amazonian, if my eyes aren't failing."

"They aren't," Lykopis agreed.

"Not made for you," he said. "Too broad for the length. I would have to see the handle to know if it fit your hands."

"It didn't," she admitted. The grip had been too small for her, but her mother had always been a delicate woman. Powerful and dangerous, but delicate. She glanced down at her own hands. Her fingers were longer than she recalled her mother's being narrower. Her palms were wider as well.

"You'll want the same build?" he asked. "I could-"

"No!" Lykopis said before she'd even made the decision. "No," she amended when he glared down at her. "Something else. Something that's-"

"Yours," he cut her off in turn. "Stay here, I have some models we will begin with."

"I have something else for you," she said before he could disappear. She pulled the new wolf claws and the broken harness from her ruck sack.

"What is..." he crossed back to her quickly, taking the weapon in hand and studying it for a long moment. "Just replace the claws?" he asked, and she nodded. "We will make you a sword as yours as these are."

"I would expect no less from you, Ethris," she said easily. He eyed her a moment before nodding and disappearing into a storeroom at the back of his forge. When he returned, her claws were no longer with him, and he had three swords in hand.

One was similar to her mother's in shape and size, and when he laid it across her hands, it felt wrong immediately. The balance was perfect, the hilt the appropriate side and width. There was no flaw in the design and yet, she had only given it a half spin to warm up her wrist before it was snatched from her and another put in its place.

This was lighter, narrow and elegant with nearly more of a point than an edge. She was a slasher. She was quick and delicate, but not so delicate. The blade was designed for poking holes, not tearing them. She was not naive enough to believe she could use such a weapon. She did not even rotate it in her hand before handing it back.

The final was reminiscent of Tristram's blade, delicate but deadly with a wicked edge that could be brought through flesh as if through silk. The weight of it was as perfect as the balance had been on the first two. As she brought it around in her wrist and finally across her in a quick slash maneuver, she'd made up her mind. It was comfortable, and it reminded her of the back up blade that Tristram had lent her. It could be used with just one hand, should she need her claws, and it fit her style of warfare.

"That then," Ethris said, taking it from her with an easy hand and laying it across his forge. "Short for you though. Your limbs are long enough to handle another inch at least."

"Two," she amended, and he gave her a look before agreeing and making marks on a sheet of parchment.

"I only work in quality. You'll not find a weak steel here, and that will force up the price," he said. "Whatever you decide on the pommel and cross guard will change the price. I don't work for free."

He looked up at her with a stern look.

"I have gold, but I have something you might be more interested in having back," she said, drawing the necklace from her pocket and dangling it out at the tips of her fingers. He gave it a fleeting glance before fixing it with a long stare. He reached out a hand and took the large black stone from her with shaking fingers. The stone was dwarfed by his hand, and it was only her presence that drew him from the study of it.

"I gave this to a girl years ago," he said, rubbing his thumb over the stone. "You've grown up."

"I have," she agreed. "That happens in fifteen years."

"Fifteen..." he trailed off before erupting into laughter. In one great burst of movement, he'd stepped forward and enveloped her in a hug that lifted her feet from the ground and made her spine creak and crack.

"Easy, Ethris," she said awkwardly, arms bound down at her sides. He'd always been a tactile man, throwing an arm over her shoulders roughly or cuffing her on the back of the head in a huff. Hugs were not something that Lykopis was overly comfortable with, but the joy in him was unquestionable.

"Ly," he said, setting her back down. "You should have said something sooner. I'd not have given you as much trouble."

"It's good to see you as well," she said, eyes flickering around the forge. "Although, it is more empty than I remember." His face fell from a jovality that was unrivaled to a grief that was all encompassing.

"It is," he admitted. "Jaris has been gone for three weeks."

"Gone," she repeated the word.

"One of the nobles," Ethris spat the word as if it had burned his tongue. "Jaris was crossing the bridge outside of town. He had been out there. The miller's daughter took a shine to him, but he was uneasy on the bridge with his leg."

"He fell," Lykopis finished for him.

"He was helped to fall," Ethris said, voice still the dark of a storm over the Crimea. He stood and walked to the door, glaring out into the light of day. His dark eyes found Dinaden and for a moment, Lykopis felt something squeeze in her stomach. He was holding up a silk for his lady, draping it around her head and shoulders.

"Din wouldn't-"

"The woman's Commander husband," Ethris said darkly. "Always on his horse, that man, but there are ways to bring a man from a horse before his guards can kill you."

"Ethris-"

"I am alone, Lykopis. My wife is gone. My daughter was taken by the sea. My son was taken by a Roman. Let an old man have his peace." He fell silent then, and Lykopis could not find the strength to argue.

**-A Man's Honor-**

Tristram was uneasy. Riding was not friendly to his still queasy stomach, and Arthur was still more pale than anything. Dagonet was a silent sentinel, and the Lark was doing far more glaring at him than he was comfortable with.

Of course, it might have had something to do with his refusal to allow her to lead her own horse, but that was beside the point. It also might have had something to do with the fact that they had been riding for three days since they were attacked and still they were too far from the sea. Too far from a wolf that watched their backs and ended the lives of those that might have put a blade in them.

It was sobering, realizing that he relied on her presence so heavily. He normally didn't feel the uneasiness, mostly because he had more of his brothers around him. As much as he enjoyed being on his own, he also enjoyed knowing that the rest were together and had each other for support. Out here, on their own, it was just Arthur and Dagonet.

"Another day and we should make the harbor," Dagonet said from beside him. The soft strength in that voice was settling, and Tristram nodded. "Your wolf will be fine."

"She is not my wolf," Tris said just as easily. "But it wouldn't hurt to have someone watching your ass."

"My ass isn't what she's interested in," Dag said with the shadow of a smile. It was that smile that stopped Tristram's sharp tongue. "I wouldn't be in such a hurry."

"Eh?" Tris grunted.

"Imagine Lykopis and the Lark within striking distance," the big man said with a huff of laughter. Tris had to agree. That would be an interesting meeting, one that hopefully would go smoothly.

Of course, he was traversing Roman land, on a Roman horse with an ex-Roman slave on the same type of horse tethered to his saddle. His luck, or lack there of, had never listened to his wishes in the past.

The sun was rising behind them as they pushed the horses across a wide open plane. Per Dagonet, they were only an hours ride from the port. Arthur had been itching to settle into an inn with an actual bed. Tristram had agreed but spent the better part of the morning poking at the fact that Arthur had grown soft in Rome.

Lark had been remarkably quiet as they rode, and her sharp eyes darted back and forth with more and more agitation the further west they went. Finally, when the sea-side town came into view, she pulled hard on the reigns, forcing the beast beneath her up on hind legs. It gave an angry shriek and the maneuver nearly sent Tristram's own horse to ground.

"What are you doing?" Arthur drew his horse up quickly and brought it around his eyes finding Tristram's to assure that he was alright.

"I am not a moron," she spat, sliding off the side of her horse. Her hands were unbound, and the short sword at her hip made them all uncomfortable.

"I did not say you were," Arthur countered. "But if you don't tell me why you're-"

"I know where this is," she said, cutting him off mid sentence. "I am not so dull to not remember where she lives. You bought my life, Arthur Castus, and you promised to free it once we were on your land. You lie like the Romans!"

"Arthur is a man of his word," Dagonet said, voice firm and unwavering, as if simply by stating it, it was law.

"Then you're more thick than you look," she spat. She paced as she spoke, legs eating up wide pieces of ground with each aggressive step. She looked nothing like a Lark then, Tristram though. She looked the part of a cornered predator. "I won't be her lark. I won't be his whore, and you'll have to kill me before I do either."

"Calm down," Tristram said easily, sliding out of the saddle. "We do not stay here. We make for Briton on the first vessel."

"You make for Briton on the first vessel with a coin purse for your troubles of delivering home a wayward slave!" she drew that sword at her hip, held out in front of her with an ease that only came with using it day after day for years. Dag's big long sword was unsheathed in a moment, and he was on the ground, between Arthur and Lark.

"Put it away, girl," he commanded. "You're making a fool of yourself."

"Better than letting you make a fool of me," she spat, dropping into a stance that they had seen her hold in the arena. It was a dangerous thing, unstudied but ready. "Kill me, send me to the dark gate, and ride along. You never found me in Rome."

"Enough!" Arthur shouted from atop his horse. "I told you that you would live to see freedom on Briton's soil. I made you this promise. I let you ride unbound, and I left a weapon in your hands. Do not repay my trust with bloodshed."

"Then do not repay mine with lies!" she shouted, taking a half step backward, eyes flickering between Arthur and Dagonet before finally settling on Tristram.

"This is where you were a slave," Tristram said after a pause. It was there, in the look of her eyes, that cornered and desperate look. The look of a predator turned into prey. Those dark eyes slid over him for a moment and then away, as if the admission was too much to swallow while looking at him. "You're not going to any Roman's villa, girl. You're going to Briton. You'll find a difference."

"This is true," Arthur said more than asked, but she nodded despite herself. There was a relaxing in her then, in the tension to her spine. "We will be there but a week before the next ship. If you'd prefer, you can camp outside of town."

"I would prefer to never see its like again," Lark snapped. "You swear to me, Artorius Castus, you swear to my on your precious honor, and if I am convinced, I will not kill you in your sleep."

"If you were going to kill me, you'd have done it days ago, when I was unconscious, Tristram was ill and Dagonet was too far away to have been any help to me." Arthur frowned at her a long moment. "We're wasting time here." He turned in the saddle and kicked his heels into the side of the horse he rode.

Dagonet looked at her a long moment before giving a grunt of disgust and sheathing his sword. "Should put the sword to her and be done with it."

"Eh," Tristram grunted. "No blood."

"Not this time," Dagonet agreed as he climbed into the saddle. Behind them, Lark still stood, hand on her sword and staring after them as if a child, lost.

"Mount up," Tris told her as he hauled himself up into his own saddle.

"I could not be that person years ago; I have not grown so much that I could do it now," she said, voice softer than anything he'd ever heard from her.

"No one asks this," he said easily and gave a tug on the rope that connected their horses. Considering it for a moment, he drew a his dagger and severed it, letting the end fall to the grass. "If something goes wrong, you run, in whatever direction you choose. Remember though, that Arthur is a good man, and there are few of them in the world."

The Lark mounted up, drew the rope up so it did not drag, and followed them across the last of the plain.

**-A Man's Honor-**

Lykopis held a length of steel in her hands, watching as Ethris measured the length and marked the steel with a piece of coal. "Palms," he commanded, taking the length from her. Across them, he rested a strip of fabric, measuring the span of them.

"Are you going to tell me what you're doing?" she asked. After they'd spoken about the blade itself and the style, he'd told her that her choice in the structure was over, that he was taking his right as the creator to finish the aesthetics. She supposed, if it pleased him, she could give him that. He'd spent the better part of three days alternating between her sword and that giant of a weapon that he had gotten the schematics of from a traveling tradesman.

She doubted that he'd stopped to sleep, but there was an energy to him that she could not deny.

"No," he said firmly. "You'll see in a week's time."

"A week?" she asked. Before, his work had taken days at a time, less for some of the early models of Bors's daggers.

"One week," he said firmly. "Do not rush art."

"I need a blade, not art," she countered.

"And I am telling you that a good blade is art." He paused. "Unless you'd like one of the stock blades."

"Fine," she conceded in a huff. Outside, it was another bright day, and she had seen Dinaden twice as he walked through the market on his daily tour with his mistress.

"You should speak with him," Ethris said from the forge.

"And say what?" she asked. "Hello, if you remember, I lived with you in a forest. We made a blood pact we both broke. Tristram misses you?"

"If that is what you think you should say," Ethris said, but there was a tone in his voice that was half humor and half disbelief.

"I don't think I should say anything," she groused, glaring out into the heat of the day. "I think I should take that giant slayer of yours and put it through his head." Ethris chuckled behind her a long moment.

"That is meant for one man," he said. "Only one man."

"I will say something nice when they put you under the dirt," Lykopis countered. She glared over her shoulder at him as he worked at his forge.

"Sing something bawdy," he corrected her. "And have a drink for me."

"No," Lykopis growled back at him. She followed Din with her eyes as he walked through a silk stall with the woman. She was, if it was possible, older looking today. "Dagonet!" she said, and before Ethris could turn, she was gone from the forge.

Lykopis wove her way through the crowd, toward the large bald head that had turned away from her and made toward the docks. It was easy to move through crowds, it always had been. She was quick on her feet and people tended to avoid her when she glared at them. Of course, she couldn't cut a crowd like Dagonet could, but that was beside the point.

She made the docks a few minutes after he did, and she could easily spot his broad back as he discussed with one of the dock men. He was a stoic man, she mused, but something had angered him. His fists were clenched at his sides and there was a tension to his shoulders that had not been there before.

"The three men I told you about," she said as she approached. "One woman and three men for the coin I gave you plus labor on the vessel. Are we to have a problem?" she asked.

"You are with the wolf," the man said and smiled. "Ly is always welcome on my boat. A diligent worker, this girl. One more will be more rations though, more coin."

"We recruiting?" Lykopis asked, and Dagonet simply shook his head. "I know Tristram didn't talk to Din."

"Arthur purchased a slave while in Rome," Dagonet spat the words as if they tasted sour on his tongue.

"Arthur purchased...your Roman commander afterall," Lykopis snarled and left him to speak with the dock hand. Dagonet shouted something after her, but she ignored it. He did not pursue her, and if he'd had, she might have used the thin dagger at her hip on him. So in love with their Roman commander that they couldn't see that he'd just purchased another person to live and die by his order. That he'd purchased their lives with his Roman status.

She ducked under the overhang to the forge and kicked at a bucket that sat in her way. It tumbled sideways and flipped, sending small pieces of metal tumbling out into the dirt.

"Someone is throwing a child's tantrum," Ethris said from his work table. He was drilling holes in the claws to attach them, and he didn't even stop his work to look up at her.

"Arthur Castus has purchased a slave while away in Rome," Lykopis said darkly.

"And he will purchase the lives of many more men and women before his time as a leader is through," Ethris said easily. "There are many reasons to purchase a slave."

"Would you buy a life?" Lykopis snarled, turning toward him.

"I would if it meant saving it," he replied, finally turning away from his work to look at her. His dark eyes caught hers firmly. "You have spent the last three weeks convincing me of Arthur Castus's good qualities. Were you making up stories?"

"Men play at being better than they are," she said, turning away from his dark, accusatory eyes. "I should know better than-"

"When you were a child," Ethris cut her off. "I understood the mistrust of the world, the ease with which you jumped to conclusions. As an adult, I had hoped that you'd grown past that." He fell silent and went back to his work. Lykopis stared moodily out into the day. The long blade that Ethris had been working on for so long was complete and leaning against the doorway. She considered it a moment, considered pushing it over for spite. A childish gesture, she was sure, one that she might have done if he hadn't just chastised her.

Out in the market, something was brewing, and it took her a good long while to recognize the high maned red horse hair helmets of the Roman mounted guard.

"Someone important is in the market," she observed, and in a moment, Ethris was beside her, his big hand closing around the handle of the blade.

"Military," he agreed before going quiet. His sharp eyes studied them for a long while before his hand slipped from the handle and he returned to his work bench. "Not yet," he said firmly.

"If you're eager to die, just sit there and I'll get one of your blades and put it through your chest," Lykopis said.

"It's not an eagerness to die. It is an eagerness to see justice," he corrected. "I am an old man, Lykopis. My wife is gone to childbirth. My daughter has been lost to the sea. My son was taken from me by that Roman." He paused, drawing a long breath as if it would strengthen him. "I have my forge and I have my trade. I would trade them both for the freedom that the shadow of my family casts over my head."

"Family is good at that," she said darkly, turning back toward the market place.

**-A Man's Honor-**

Lark was pacing outside of the city gate, glaring at Tristram as he snickered at her discomfort. They had been on the edge of the city for three days. Arthur and Dagonet were in town, making preparations. Tris had his own preparations to make, and Lark had insisted that she would not be left tied to a saddle.

The hoof beats of Roman horses sounded on the road behind them, and Lark flinched, turning her back to the caravan as it passed through. Tristram did not hide the amusement in his eyes at her discomfort.

"Quiet or I'll cut the tongue from your head," she snarled, shouldering past him. He followed in the shadow of her footsteps, one hand resting comfortably on the hilt of his sword.

"It hasn't changed," Lark murmured as the road led into the town, becoming the main street that passed along one side of the market. The venders had all changed, surely enough, but there were still silks and cottons weaves, men selling leatherware and vegetables. If she sniffed, she was sure she could smell the savory scent of meat being roasted somewhere within the market.

"Nothing really changes," Tris said easily from beside her, eyes combing through the market at a lazy pace.

"No, I suppose it really does-"

"What?" he asked, catching the sharp off cut of her words and the stiffening of her back. He did not miss the way that her hand strayed to one of the daggers that she had on her person before she moved forward through the crowd, slipping between people as easily as if she'd done it all her life. "Lark!" he shouted after her, but she did not pause, did not turn.

He pushed his way through the crowd, but the woman was smaller and the people did not move for him as they seemed to for her.

"Ethris!" A familiar voice shouted from not far away. There was a shout and an ear splitting scream from a horse a half moment later. He was relieved when he finally managed to push his way through the crowd, finding her standing back, the dagger loosely in her hand, face slack with shock. She stood on the edge of an empty ring of space, only occupied by a dead horse, laying motionless on its side, a monster of a blade buried through its neck and upward, into the belly of his rider.

A man stood not two paces off, staring with a look of determination on his face. The rider groaned low once before blood bubbled up from his mouth and to the cobblestone ground below.

"No!" a woman screeched, and a few moments later, a Roman woman was pushing her way through the ring of bystanders. Her hair was long, curling around her in grey streaked waves. There were lines around her eyes and mouth, declaring her age even before the sagging in her arms and the wrinkles in her hands. Her face was contorted in agony at the site before her, and she fell to her knees in a pool of the blood, bright red and turning the dirt between the cobblestones to mud.

"What's going on here?" another asked, and Tristram did not need to see him to know him. Dinadan had always sounded the same, and when he came into view, there was no doubt in his mind. There was no doubt, but there was disgust as he knelt beside the woman, hands on her shoulders in a comforting gesture, the gesture of a lover.

"That's..." Lark trailed off as she stared at the woman. "Marggoria."

"Who is-"

"Arrest him!" the Roman woman shouted, thrusting one bloodied hand out at the aging man. "Take his head for this!" There were no tears running down her face. The sorrow had vanished, and in its stead was rage.

"Ethris!" the name was said again in that familiar voice, and in a moment, Lykopis was in front of the elderly man, her claws tight against her hand, completely repaired. The hood was pulled down over her eyes in such a way that he had not seen in weeks. She looked through the eyes of the wolf at the four men who came through the crowd toward the big man.

"Ly, no," the elderly man said, reaching one hand forward to grip her shoulder only to close around air. The men came forward, meeting her halfway. A short blade, half made and unbalanced came forward in her other hand, and was buried into the chest of one of the guards.

"Damn it, Lykopis," Tristram murmured, moving forward only to be pushed back as Lark lunged forward, toward the Roman woman, who still knelt in blood. The Roman guard's body hit the ground just as Lark threw herself forward, that dagger in her hand as deadly as the half sword in Lykopis's.

Tris did not know what happened then, in that next moment, because he could only see Dinadan sitting there, looking over his shoulder at the Lark, who had given some sort of war cry that the scout's ears did not hear. Din between the Bloody Lark and the Roman. Lykopis between the man and three guards. Tristram's entire life there, torn in two directions and begging the end of everything.

Another moment of deafness and paralysis. Another Roman on the ground, his throat ripped out. Dinanadan pinned beneath the Lark, that blade at his throat, something snarling out past her clenched teeth. Her eyes were not on him though, as he lay there, struggling against that knife, but on the Roman woman.

His hand found the hilt of his sword, and in a moment, it was free. People fled from his side quickly, and he took half a step before that grey wolf pelt was in front of him, tackling Lark sideways and rolling with her for a moment before they separated, Lark rolling forward a few more feet. Tris glanced over to the two other Roman guards, both dead on the ground before taking a step forward, hands outstretched, one holding his sword in a gesture that was lost as long as the blade was there.

"That is _enough_!" Came a shout from the crowd that parted as though shocked. Arthur came through the path they made, face a stoic mask of command, Dagonet at his side. The big man gave Tristram a brief nod of recognition as he slid forward, pushing Lark behind him with one strong hand. The woman hissed something at him but went, tucking the dagger into her side.

"God be good," the Roman woman said, rolling her eyes toward the heavens a moment. "Sir, this man has slain my lord husband. You must-"

"I must do nothing," Arthur said firmly. "I have no legal power in this land, and I will not step into a responsibility that I do not have." His dark eyes found Lykopis and he shook his head slightly. "I would have thought better of you."

"Ethris is my friend, and fool though he is, I will not watch him die here."

"Ly, I know the consequences, and I am-"

"A damned fool!" she shouted, turning back toward him and brandishing the sorry excuse for a sword at him before tossing it at his feet.

"This man must die," the Roman woman said firmly. Blood dripped from the front of her dress and her arms.

"For killing a man that killed his son?" Lykopis growled, turning back toward her, those claws of her tight against her knuckles. Tristram did not miss the uneasy way that she held herself, the willingness to be there, in front of a man he did not know. To defend Dinadan, a man neither of them knew any longer.

"Is this true?" Arthur asked the woman.

"My husband kills many men. It is his divine right."

"No one has the divine right to kill," Lark said from behind Dagonet. "Just like no one has the divine right to enslave." She stepped around the big man, and Dinadan stood quickly, putting himself between the woman and Lark.

"Stand down, fool," Lykopis growled at him, and he glared over his shoulder at her.

"You didn't command me before; you don't command me now," he said.

"She saved you from a woman," Tristram said darkly, annoyance flaring low in his stomach. Dinadan ignored Tris and took a step back, wrapping his arm around the aging woman beside him.

"Such a pretty Roman bird, sitting in a cage, singing the song she was taught to sing," Lark said, voice light and teasing, that dagger still at her side, though sheathed.

"I am not a bird," the woman said, chest puffing out.

"But you'd like to keep a bird, right? Keep a bird in a cage?"

"That is enough," Arthur said, turning toward her.

"Leave Maggoria alone!" Din told her, face a dark scowl. "I don't know who you are or why you're here, but if you're not going to see justice, then leave a widow to mourn. Take your men and leave the people to their own justice."

Tristram scoffed under his break and shook his head at that. Lykopis turned and fixed him with a look that blatantly said _See? And this is what I lived with._

"Come," Arthur said firmly to his people. "We will camp on the outskirts of town until the ship is prepared. I suggest, sir, that you accompany my men." He considered Ethris for a moment with a stern face. "We can speak of what happened once cooler heads have prevailed. Lark, Lykopis, you two will come with me."

"She goes nowhere," Dinadan insisted, pointing at Lark, who stared at him, a smirk on her lips and her hand on the hilt of that dagger again.

"Ready to die, boy?" she asked, only to grunt as Dagonet closed a hand around her shoulder and tugged her backward after Arthur, who had ignored Dinadan's demand and was walking away.

"Get your blade before we leave," Ethris said to Lykopis as he followed Arthur. The wolf nodded once and disappeared back through the crowd that parted for her. The forge was not far, and she had taken the blade, her pack and as many of Ethris's things that she could before heading toward the door. The obsidian stone flickered in her mind, and she turned back, rustling through a chest of his things before coming up with the stone necklace.

She slipped out of town and ringed around the outskirts until she found where Arthur had made his camp. By the time she arrived, Arthur was standing in front of the woman, speaking to her in a low voice. She glared at the woman a long moment before stepping out from around their horses to stand beside Tristram.

"I do not like her," she said easily, glaring at the woman.

"She won't like you," he retorted with a smile. "I don't think she likes anyone."

"Dinadan's head is even further up his ass than I had thought."

"He will learn," Tristram said, lips in a tight frown. "He only learns when there is pain involved, and I...well, he'll learn."

"She'd have killed him," Lykopis said, glaring at the woman again.

"She has killed many men, and many men would have killed her, given the chance." Tristram shrugged a shoulder, as if the idea was just another cloud, casting a shadow over the land.

"That's Arthur's slave," Lykopis realized and scowled at the commander.

"Eh," Tristram said, catching her attention. He cuffed her lightly in the back of her head and pulled the hood up across her eyes again. "Arthur saved her life, and a wolf doesn't fear a lark."

"A wolf fears nothing," she agreed, staring out the eyes of the animal. "A lark?"

"She refused to sing for a Roman woman when she was taken as a slave. As punishment, they sent her to Rome to fight in an arena. She has forgotten her name, and she is as comfortable with Lark as any other thing."

"The Roman woman's slave?" Lykopis asked, but she was nodding as if she already knew. "She didn't want Dinadan, he was just in the way."

"Arthur is speaking to her. He gave me the distinct privilege to keep you here until he has his turn with you."

"With me?" she asked.

"You killed four guards and stood between them and a man that killed a Roman Commander." Tristram smiled down at her. "You didn't think that was going to be forgotten?"

"Arthur is not my commander. He is not my owner or my lord." She turned from him and clenched a fist, drawing the claws against her skin.

"No, but I am the man that kept you from being killed," Arthur said, far closer than she had last noticed him. He had left Lark to stand beside Dagonet a short way off, across a burned out campfire.

"I am more difficult to kill than you'd imagine," she countered, glaring at him. "She wouldn't have killed me, just as those guards didn't."

"And some day, maybe I will stand by and allow that battle to finish someday, but today, I need you to keep a level head. When we're back on Briton soil, we'll settle your differences."

"I have no difference to settle, as long as she leaves Dinadan alone," Lykopis said loud enough that her voice would carry. The other woman glanced at her a moment before Dagonet nudged her firmly in the shoulder. Finally, she nodded, her wild hair falling forward across one of her shoulders.

"I have nothing to settle with a love sick girl," she said, a smirk on her lips. Lykopis narrowed her eyes behind her mask. "Poor thing doesn't know when her lover is fucking a Roman whore." Lykopis shook her head and glared at Tristram.

"I still don't like her," she said and turned away to listen to Ethris explain his situation to Arthur. Tris watched after her, a frown drawing the corners of his lips down for a moment. Vaguely, he was aware of Dagonet reaching out and snapping his hand against the back of Lark's head.

"The _wolves_ don't mind his smell overmuch," Dagonet said. A short silence followed before Dag's rough laughter sounded.


	13. Chapter 13

**This chapter begged to be written so much that I did it while at work today. My employer's loss in quality is your gain. **

**Chapter 13: Not so Courtly Love**

Dagonet was going to lose what little sanity he had left. He was convinced that between Arthur's constant worried glances, Tristrams' quiet amusement at his discomfort and the two women riding on either side of him, glaring over his horse's neck, he was down to the last shred of mental faculty he had remaining.

And god if they weren't treading on it as though it were the practice arena.

Arthur had declared a few hours ago that it would do them all some good to move, and Dagonet had jumped at the opportunity, saddling his mare and ignoring the bickering that seemed near constant between Ethris and Lykopis, who the smithy insisted upon calling Ly as if it was her real name. Then there was Lark who alternated between glaring darkly at everyone and smirking in amusement at Tristram, who took her looks with more ease than Dag himself could muster. So, when both Lykopis and Lark insisted upon riding side by side, glaring and letting their horses nudge each other in more than play, Arthur declared Dagonet to be peacekeeper.

If he was a lesser man, Dagonet might have killed his commander at that moment. As it was, he simply resigned himself to the ride.

"Wolf," Tristram called, and Lykopis turned in the saddle and glanced over at him. "Scout the village?"

"I'm not sure that would be the prudent-"

"Let them go, Arthur," Dagonet cut off his commander with an axiousness he had not felt in some time. "Tristram was not involved, and it has been several days." He held his breath long and steady, trying to will the commander to just agree.

The Gods were good, and Tristram was pushing the sainthood that Arthur's Christian's desired so much as he rode off over a rise with Lykopis in tow.

"You'd think someone just removed a three foot sword from your asshole, the way you relaxed," Lark commented easily. She herself was much more at ease in the saddle, and Dag had to wonder for a moment if...

"You are a child," he countered. "Lykopis is a good woman. She has no association with Rome, and had you not lunged for her friend, you'd have been on the same side in that battle. Is it not time to put away the childishness?"

"I hold no grudges, giant, but it is amusing to watch you squirm. The wolf figured out the game hours ago." Dag signed up into the sky, blue for once and not dotted with white whisps.

"My knights learned long ago that peace is best between them. I pray that God grant me salvation from the ways of women," Arthur said, interrupting Dagonet's mental murder of the Lark.

"You're married, or that Christian symbol on your finger is a lie," Lark said. "May God grant your wife salvation from the humorlessness of her husband."

"Arthur is a man of honor, and Guinevere is a Lady fit for his wife," Dagonet said, almost as if on instinct. When had he started simply defending Arthur because he was there to defend? Was it on the ice? Before that? Surely Arthur was a man grown now and did not need him to jump to his defence? He rolled his shoulders to chase away the ache there.

"And may God grant me salvation from your inability to relax," Lark groused before leaning back to lay flat against her horse's back. She has refused a saddle and how she stayed perched there was beyond Dagonet's reconing, but he had to admit that it looked comfortable, reclined back so that she felt every movement of the animal beneath her.

"We are all on edge," Arthur murmured, bringing his horse to a stop. He sighed out across the land, as if his breath could fill the sails of the vessel that would carry them home and hasten its departure by four whole days. "When we return to Britton, I will rest easier."

"You've a wife in a bed waiting for you; you'll do no such thing as rest," Lark said, pushing herself upright and giving Arthur as suggestive of a look as Dagonet had ever seen a woman wear. Arthur froze in his saddle, turning to look at the woman before she chuckled darkly and let herself flop back down on the horse.

"Between you and Lancelot, I will never get a moment's peace," Arthur said, burring his heels into his horse's sides. Dagonet could just see their camp up ahead, with Ethris seated beside the fire. The old smithy had neither a horse to ride, nor the mind to procure one, and so had resigned himself to defending their camp. If the split belly of the Roman was anything to go by, the man was more than capable. Tris and Lykopis had yet to return, and Dagonet was silently grateful for the small miracle that the scout had performed.

**-RP: Not So Courtly Love-**

Lark was perhaps the most uninhibited thing that Arthur had ever seen. Squirrel was a more apt name, surely, but he wasn't about to tell her that as she walked along the top sail of the mizzenmast. She'd bound her hair behind her for the first time since he'd met her, but only to keep the wind from ripping it from her head as she stood atop the sail, arms outstretched to either side, screaming a challenge into the wind.

The crew had been uneasy for the first few days, but they had quickly realized that while she often stumbled and even once hung by the tips of her fingers from a length of rope, she never fell, and often times, her stumbles were purposeful, as if their unease stoked some pleasure in her.

He, himself, had stopped flinching with every step she'd taken only a day ago, and he still nearly lept to his feet every time her surefooted steps slipped. For a woman that had spent forteen years only walking on stone and sand, she was remarkably at ease on the sea. Arthur could not say the same for his knights or the man that Tris kept a watch over with his sharp eyes.

He'd come back with Tristram and Lykopis on the day they'd gone to scout the city, and the man had said precious little to anyone but the pair since. His presence did nothing to Lark's demeanor, but hers put him on edge, even Arthur could see that. He'd yet to talk properly to either Lykopis or Tristram, but the scout had given him that look that he so rarely employed. That half-begging, half-resigned look that demanded silence and patience. He'd asked for so little in his time at Hadrian's Wall that Arthur was likely to grant him any request he made.

**-RP: Not So Courtly Love-**

_Lykopis rode silently for a long while as they ringed the town yet again, doing nothing more than riding circles. Tristram had not mentioned anything further since asking her to ride out with him, an odd enough request coming from the usually solitary scout. _

_He'd done no speaking, which wasn't necessarily unusual, but he normally managed a word for her every few minutes. What was unusual was the fact that in three times around the town, Tristram had not once glanced at any of the gates or the little alleyways that led to nothing but wide open fields or the houses with windows thrown open. _

_In short, their scouting trip was devoid of any real scouting. _

_"You going to tell me what has you completely in your own head or are we going to exhaust the horses first?" When he did not respond, she gathered the length of reigns in her hand and snapped it against the back of his head. _

_"Eh!" he grunted, turning to fix her with a startled glare. _

_"I haven't managed to startle you in years, let alone do something like that from two feet away," she said, brow creased. "If you kept on like this for the past fifteen years, you'd have died with or without my help." _

_"I wasn't-"_

_"You were," Lykopis said, voice softening slightly. "Just tell me what worries the hawk and the wolf will see it dead." Tristram chuckled at that, an old ease slipping into him in her presence. He imagined that this is what a child felt under its mother's eye. He snorted as he glanced over at her, that wolf hood hanging down around her shoulders. A mother she was not, and he'd never been more grateful for anything in his life. _

_"The hawk doesn't fear anything that the wolf could kill," he countered. There was a long pause, but Lykopis let it linger. Tristram's dark eyes were watching the village now, darting back and forth as if he was lost in thought that he had already run over and over in his head but was only just allowing to live. _

_"We are running out of time," he said at last. _

_"Ah," she said, pulling the beast beneath her to a hault. Tristram's mare was well trained and stopped without his command, even going so far as to turn slightly, as if she could sense a danger that had caused the other rider to hault. "I should have known."_

_"He did not know me," Tristram said, brow scrunched into a creased line. "I knew his voice. I knew his face, and yet, as he looked at me, he did not know me." _

_"Well, you've a face a person tries hard to forget, as ugly as it is," Lykopis teased, but her heart was not in it, and Tristram barely spared her a glare before staring back at the town._

_"If I had changed as Galahad or Dagonet has changed, I would understand, but I have not. I have not-"_

_"Oh, you've changed," Lykopis said with a chuckle. "You've all changed."_

_"Not so much that he should not know me," Tristram said firmly. "There were promises made, Lykopis. You may not understand the oaths of men, but there were promises made on blood and sweat that we would stand at each other's backs until the end of things. I am standing here, Lykopis, and yet my back is cold." _

_Lykopis sighed and slumped down into the saddle. Of course. She gave the scout one last long look and burried her heels into the horse she rode, sending it lurching forward into a gallop down the hill they'd stopped on toward the town. She did not hear the hoofbeats of Tristram's mare behind her until she had drawn the horse to a walk on the main dirt road into the city. _

_She considered over her shoulder a moment. The mare was still halfway back on the rise, and she could see Tristram's face just beside her neck. There were not so many Roman villas in the town, but there were enough that he would not find Dinadan quickly without her. Afterall, she'd stalked him time and time again over the past few weeks. She eyed the dirt road that branched off before the city, the road that would take her to the villa where Dinadan would be spending his time. _

_She urged the horse further down the road, passing the cross road and urging the creature into the town. Once beyond the large stone wall, she slipped from the saddle and slapped the beast firmly on the backside, sending it galloping through town. She waited until Tristram rode hard past, swearing as he pushed the mare after her riderless horse. He would discover the misdirection soon enough, but it would take him longer to track her down that it would take her. _

_The villa was beautiful, she had to give the Roman woman that. Men and women milled about, tending to plants and seeing to livestock. No one questioned her as she walked up the dirt road until she reached the front door, a wide open arch filled with dark wood. _

_"May I help you?" an aged woman asked from beside the door. She was a beautiful thing once, even Lykopis could see that, but the sun and years had wrinkled and darkened her skin to leather. Her hair was grey ringlets, falling in riotous curls around her shoulders. _

_"I am here to speak with the lady's escort." She had heard Dinadan called such things in the past by the slaves and ladies that followed Marggoria through the market. _

_"The lady has requested that none disturb her or the young Dinitius," the woman said with a polite shake of her head. _

_"I am hear to speak with Dinadan, the Sarmatian that rode into this town fourteen years ago, not the Roman lap dog that she has made of him," Lykopis snarled. The woman took half a step back, and her perfectly folded hands separated to fly halfway to her mouth. She schooled herself quickly though, and that polite smile was back. _

_"The lady has asked that we servants call him Dinitius while he is in her presence," the woman said firmly. _

_"And what did the lady change your name to when you came here, for surely your features are not Roman?" That froze the woman, who smiled that sad slave's smile and simply shook her head._

_"The lady has gone to the rear gardens to rejuvinate and mourn the loss of her lord husband. Dinitius will most likely be at her side. I would bid you good day," the woman said firmly, but she turned her back and walked to the end of the house before disappearing around the corner. Lykopis blinked after her a long moment before slipping through the heavy wooden doors. _

_The villa was a quiet thing, with slaves bustling here and there, but none of them met Lykopis's eye or stopped her as she walked to the rear of the villa. The garden was something that Lykopis had never seen the like of and probably never would again with delicate plants and a riot of colorful flowers. She could hear but not see water flowing over stones, and there were red and orange fabrics drapped over a wide wooden canopy. _

_Dinadan she could see easily where he sat on a cushion in the middle of the canopy with the Roman woman reclined against his chest. She found herself behind them before she'd made a sound, and they continued on as they were, completely unaware of her presence. _

_"I want you to find that man, Dinitius, my love," Marggoria said. "I want him dead for murdering my husband." _

_"A husband you did not love, an abusive man, Marggoria, for what could I justify his death with a Roman Commander refused to take his life?" _

_"A Roman Commander that has betrayed his people and made himself king of an island Rome itself claimed," Marggoria countered. "Rome would grant you a title and lands, perhaps my husband's own, if you took his life and the lives of his men." Lykopis felt something rise in her at that, and struggled to hold herself still and not rake her claws across the woman's throat. _

_"A Roman Commander that has two men with him and a woman that I once knew." _

_"Of course, the woman stays your hand," Marggoria said. There was a waver to her voice that made Lykopis cringe. _

_"The woman is none of his concern," Lykopis said, drawing both of their attention. Marggoria screamed for aid, but none came from the house immediately. Din pushed her behind him, scowling at Lykopis. "What is his concern, is a promise that he made, years ago, to a boy that has not forgotten it." _

_"I made you no promise."_

_"And I am not a boy. I am not the one you chased over the Crimea to Briton, and I am not the one that you snuck over a wall to leave a message in fruit and hope for years until you decided to retreat back here," Lykopis said, clenching her claws to her knuckles. _

_"He's dead," Dinadan said firmly. "He died in Briton or he would have ridden here upon his freedom. He'd have come with Arthorious Castus. A Roman commander does not ride with only two knights because he has more at home that desired to not sail." _

_"You're a fool," Lykopis snarled. "I do not forget my promises so easily as you, and I have seen that all of my pack survived. You looked into Tristram's face, and you did not know him." When Dinadan did not react, Lykopis sighed. "Or you have chosen not to know him."_

_"We are men grown. Childish promises no longer bind me," Dinadan said. _

_"Then prove it," Lykopis challenged, holding her arms out to her sides in invitation. "Kill me. Kill Tristram and Ethris and Arthur as your lady commands." _

_"Do it," Marggoria urged. "Or she will kill us. We cannot be happy here any longer. They will take my land and give it to another if you don't earn it. I will be sent to Rome and given as a gift to a new husband."_

_"I-" Dinadan stopped, drawing his breath in sharply. His eyes focused over Lykopis's shoulder, and she could nearly feel the wrath there, just a few feet away from her. _

_"A childish promise," Tristram's voice was firm and unflinching, but Lykopis could hear the resignation there, the same lost tone that it had held not two hours before when they'd sat on a hill top. He'd been quicker than she'd expected by far. "Eh," he said at length. _

_"Tristram-"_

_"Leave him, Lykopis," Tristram said, turning away from them and retreating back toward the villa. Lykopis lingered for a long while. _

_"You'll let him get away," Marggoria urged. "If you don't do this for me, I will not love you."_

_"You will not love me," Dinadan echoed her words, and there was a breathlessness to the statement that made her look at him. There was a smile on his face, but one that she had never seen before, one that Rome had taught him. "A fool is a man in love with a woman married to her riches." _

_"Dinitius," Marggoria called him as he took a half step toward the villa. "Dinitius, you owe me this."_

_"I owe you murder," Din said uneasily, turning to look at her with wide, unseeing eyes. "When did you become so cold hearted? When did I miss this change in you?"_

_"When my husband was murdered before my eyes," Marggoria shouted at him. _

_"A husband you had asked me kill time and time again for abuses against you!"_

_"It was still taken from me!" Marggoria raged, sending a bronze tray of food skittereing to the ground. By now, the guards deep within the villa had responded, and they came through the rear, ushering Tristram as they went. The scout was stone faced, and his sword remained sheathed. Lykopis nearly snarled at him at that. _

_"My lady?" one of the guards asked, and in a moment, the woman was a weak thing, limp arms and sniveling, tears welling in her eyes. _

_"They have killed my lord husband, your lord, and now come to finish his wife. A traitor lead them to me. You must-"_

_Lykopis was not sure what possessed Dinadan in that next moment, but he turned back toward her, hand going toward his hip. Two guards had fled Tristram in that second and had crossed the distance between the two men. A blade was muscled from Dinadan's grip and he was forced down to his knees, a man on either side, wrenching his arms behind his back._

_"My lady?" one of the guards asked, and she heaved a great sob. _

_"Kill them. Kill all of them!"_

_"Marggoria!" Dinadan shouted over his shoulder, but the Roman woman would not be moved. She stood there a long moment, fat crocodile tears in her eyes before she turned her face away. When his call of her name was met with silent, Dinadan stopped struggling against the hands that held him. A sword was drawn at his back, and in the next moment, Tristram's distressed voice called his name. Light eyes locked with dark eyes in a twisted repeat of history. _

_"Dinadan," Tristram called, and Lykopis turned toward him. His blade was in the hand of one of the guards. How it got there, Lykopis would never know, never imagine. He was a panicked youth again in that moment, eyes wide behind dark bangs. She had watched this before. She had seen Dinadan struggle free of guards and cross an expanse with a stolen sword to defend a kneeling Tristram. She had watched him struck down and left to die in the sun. She imagined the next few moments. Tristram would break the guard's hold on him. He would take the sword hanging forgotten at the hip of the man that had stolen his own. He would cross that distance and-_

_Fire. That was all she felt. Her eyes blanketed with darkness that flickered only a moment before she was moving, ripping her claws through the throat of the man that held the blade over Dinadan's head. The other struck her firmly across the jaw with a clenched fist, sending her careening back half a step before she twisted, raking her claws across his stomach, ripping through leather and flesh. _

_She heard rather than saw Tristram move behind her as she felt the cold sting of a clean cut across her shoulder. She stumbled forward, the momentum of the blow her to her back carrying her to her knees. The white hot pain distracted her for a long moment before she felt Tristram at her back, holding a hand over the wound and easing her back onto her backside. _

_"That was foolish," he said firmly, but there was no bite to it. Dinadan had pivoted to his own buttocks and was staring at her with a slack jawed confusion. _

_"Agreed," Lykopis said through clenched teeth. "Are you done acting like a child?" Lykopis hissed at Dinadan, her voice flooded with pain more than anger. Dinadan did not respond and instead rose up to his feet and took a few tentative steps toward Lykopis until he knelt down at her other side. With a firm hand, he hauled her to her feet. _

_"Come on, I know a physician in town," he said. _

_"She knows a physician outside of town," Tristram countered. "We need to leave." Din nodded firmly and the three of them left the villa as quickly as possible. Lykopis could feel Tristram's sharp eyes on her shoulder the entire way. The wound was not a great thing, only six inches long and deflected by her scapula before it could do real damage. Tristram was nothing if not a scout though, and he chose to gather information on the wolf as they reached the front of the villa. _

_"You ride," Tristram said firmly, and Lykopis glared over her good shoulder at him. _

_"Still stubborn," Dinadan said. Tristram eyed him a long while, mouth a firm line. _

_"Proud and stubborn and strong," Tristram said after a long pause. He hauled himself into the saddle. "And I have known her long enough to no argue. I left your horse stabled. We will have a talk later." He urged his mare down the lane hard, and left Lykopis and Dinadan to make their way. _

_It was silent as they walked save for the faint drip of blood into the dirt at their feet. The wound had nearly stopped bleeding, and her fingers were caked with dried blood and dust by the time they made it to the bottom of the lane, where Tristram waited with Lykopis's horse. _

_It was slow going out to Arthur's camp after that. Dagonet swore under his breath when he saw the wound and stitched her up. Lark made a fleeting comment until she recognized Dinadan and fell silent. Arthur simply stood there, a shepherd looking over a flock that kept growing without his permission. _

**-RP: Not So Courtly Love-**

They made landfall in good time, for once fortune working with them. Progress to the wall was slow going, and no one wanted to push the horses despite Arthur's desire to be back home once and for all. He rode quietly at the front of his group, mind racing the day's ride ahead and to the wall, where Guinevere would stand waiting for him. Soft lipped and dark eyed.

For the flicker of a heartbeat, those eyes changed and the lips thinned. He knew that face as intimately as he knew his own, and yet, when it disappeared, he would not admit that it had ever existed in his mind.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14: The Flight From Happiness**

Gawain was bored. He'd never thought he'd be starving for a good Woad ambush on his scouting round through the woods, but that was exactly what his brain was imagining in that moment. At least when they were constantly under some threat they'd all gotten along, which was not the case, unfortunately, out from under the thumb of Arthur.

Galahad had been sullen and pouting, drinking himself to a stupor and passing out in the tavern long before it was acceptable-because even Gawain liked to pass out drunk on occasion as long as it was late enough. That was hardly his prime problem though. No, his problem-or problems, if he was being honest with himself-were brown eyed and dark haired and at absolute odds with each other.

After Arthur left, Lancelot had become the child that he became every time Arthur was out of his range. The First Knight always felt uncomfortable when their commander wasn't there. At first, Gawain had thought it was a fear of their commander being wounded. They'd all felt that anxiety over the years, but none so keenly as Lancelot. The dark eyed First Knight had taken that sullen, pouting behaviour to a completely different level.

For the first three days, he'd laid in a sick bed that he had not been in for days previous. The only thing that had forced him from his stupor had been Guinevere, who had marched defiantly up to his closed door and thrown it open without preamble.

Their queen-and if that didn't sound odd nothing else ever would-had demanded that he rise from bed and help with the defense talks that were underway between the Woads and the Knights of Hadrian's Wall. Gawain had not been at that first meeting, but everyone had heard the screaming match between Lancelot and Guinevere as they stormed from the dormitory hall to the meeting room.

**-RP: ****The Flight From Happiness****-**

_"I'll not tolerate your petulant sulking any longer," Guinevere demanded as she stood in the doorway. Lancelot was reclined on his mattress, staring up at the ceiling. The window had been drawn closed and only the light from a low burning fire let the Woad Princess catch the shine of empty bottles littering the floor._

_"Be gone," Lancelot muttered, waving a dismissing hand toward the door without breaking his staring competition with the ceiling._

_"I'll not," Guinevere said firmly, taking a few quick steps into the room. She nudged an overturned jug with her toe, wincing at the liquid that splashed out. "You've done nothing but drink since Arthur left, have you?"_

_"If only to lessen the blow that you are wed, and thus no longer an option for my bed," Lancelot confirmed, but there was a resigned air to the innuendo that made Guinevere more uncomfortable than the words. The words were a comfort, an empty comfort that made something flutter in her chest, but a comfort none the less. It was the tone, the depressed air with which he did not even spare her a glance or lewd gesture._

_"This is ridiculous," Guinevere chastized, crossing to the bed and throwing a thin weave blanket from his lap. "What would Arthur say if he saw you now?"_

_"What Arthur would say is not what I'd want to hear, and so I will ignore the question in favor of what I'd like to hear," Lancelot said, and this time, he spared her a glance accompanied with the one sided smile that Guinevere had seen him give bar wenches._

_"And what would you want to hear?" she asked, not being able keep the teasing tone from her voice. It was dangerous though, as those big dark eyes turned to her with such intensity that she startled. She held his gaze for several long moments before standing and taking a few stuttered steps away from the bed. She had nearly made the door before she tripped over a jug and toppled in a heap to the floor._

_"Even a Woad Queen can fall in ale," Lancelot said between bouts of laughter._

_"Enough!" Guinevere shouted, rising as gracefully as she could, trying to save her pride. "You will get up. You will clean this mess before Arthur returns and loses all faith in his First Knight. Then you will come to the round table, where you will help Merlin with defense strategy." She turned to storm toward the door before he could protest._

_"The hell I will!" Lancelot shouted back, rising to her ire with his own. He sat up and rotated himself to the side of the bed. "Your precous Merlin can handle the defense of his own country."_

_"This is your country!" Guin told him from the door. "This is Arthur's country, and as his friend-"_

_"I'm not his friend!" Lancelot shouted, rising to his feet in an explosion of movement that honestly should have pulled at his wounds still. For a moment, only rage flickered across his face, but as what he'd said settled into both his and Guinevere's mind, his face paled and the rage fell to nothingness. They stood there a long while before Guinevere sighed._

_"You will respect your King, if not your friend, and you will pull yourself together long enough to help with defense strategy." She left him there then, standing in the middle of his own mess. She did not question his statement, but hours later, as Lancelot was standing along the round table, glaring at maps and small figures and plans, he could think of nothing else._

**-RP: ****The Flight From Happiness****-**

Gawain had heard that particular story from a servant girl who had found herself in his lap that evening at the tavern. She'd been a nice girl, a bit young for his tastes, but eager and with a beautiful set of blue eyes. He'd been halfway through a tankard when Vanora had come to him, hands on her hips and a frown on her lips.

"I don't know where Bors has gone," Gawain said pre-emptively, hoping to deter the wrath of the firey woman that owned the tavern.

"For once, it's not my husband," Vanora said, collapsing into the chair beside him. "Leave, girl."

"Oy!" Gawain shouted as the girl fled his lap. "And what is it that makes you think you can send away my fun?"

"Your fun is not going to have anywhere to work if she doesn't do her job, and I am short three serving girls this evening," Vanora said, and when Gawain looked, he could see the fatigue in her. "I have Bors working, Gawain, Bors."

"As amusing as Bors in an apron is, how is this my problem?"

"It is your problem because Galahad is passed out and I can't spare Bors." She furrowed her brow a moment and bit at her bottom lip, a gesture that Gawain had not seen on the woman in many years. "I understand that Lancelot is taking things hard, but he can't steal away my girls this early in the evening."

"Girls?" Gawain asked, stressing the plural.

"Girls," Vanora confirmed, glancing around the tavern. When Gawain looked again, he realized that there were new faces, and if he was correct, two of them were Vanora's own children that normally wouldn't set foot in the tavern. Still, there were empty cups and more than one patron attempting to wave down a serving girl.

"What would you like me to do?"

"I don't know!" Vanora shouted, resting both of her elbows on the table top. "Talk to him! Do whatever it is you lot do when he gets like this."

"I'm afraid that won't happen until Arthur is back safely on this island."

"I can't wait until Arthur is back, Gawain. It's only been three days." Gawain looked at her once hesitantly, and the pleading there crippled him.

"Fine," he said on a sigh and drained the last of his tankard in one go.

"You drink free for the rest of the week," Vanora said thankfully as she stood.

"I will be dealing with Lancelot; you'll owe me meals as well," he said, only half joking.

"You've not paid for a meal in years," Vanora countered as she walked away, waving one hand over her head as she went.

Gawain stood outside of Lancelot's door for several long moments, listening. The silence from inside was unnerving, and Gawain considered knocking before just inching the door open.

"Will no one ever knock?" Lancelot's voice came from within the room, and Gawain pushed it the rest of the way open.

"If I'd knocked, you wouldn't have answered," Gawain countered, eyes flickering around the room.

"Lost something, Gawain?"

"Perhaps you've lost something," Gawain said uneasily. "Or three someone's rather. Vanora is not amused with you." Lancelot gave him a half of a smile before indicating the far wall with his head.

"They've been down the hall enjoying each other's company for the past several hours. I required rest in my old age."

"I find that hard to believe," Gawain said, sitting down on a chair in the corner.

"Even gods have bad days," Lancelot said, and there was a shadow of his whit, his spark that made him both infuriating and impossible to not love.

"Gods do not go into depressions when their commanders go on a trip," Gawain countered.

"Ah, then I am mortal again," Lancelot murmured, glaring darkly at the wall.

"This cannot just be about Arthur," Gawain said firmly. "You've never been this bad."

"I've never been held responsible for the protection of his little band of woads before either," Lancelot said with a sigh. "It is a heavy thing to tell a man that if you do not return, he should take care of his people."

"His people?"

"He asked that if he not return, I see you all back to Sarmatia," Lancelot admitted uneasily.

"And what are the rest of us? Children unable to defend ourselves?"

"Well, I wasn't going to tell you but with that hair-" Lancelot was cut off sharply by the heavy blow of Gawain's shoulder as he crashed into abdomen. The pair wrestled for a long moment before falling to the ground in a mess of limbs. "Ah, I give, I give," Lancelot hissed out the last of his breath.

"As you should," Gawain agreed, sitting back with a huff of breath. "You're more healed than you're admitting; that did not hurt you."

"No," Lancelot agreed, catching his breath. They fell into a companionable silence for a few long minutes.

"It is not just Arthur," Gawain said again, but this time his voice was soft, easily turned aside or ignored. It was that tone that Lancelot would respond to, if he were to respond; it always had been.

"No, it is not," Lancelot said, completely resigned to his own misery. He stood up then, wincing as he went, and eased himself back onto the bed. Gawain stared up at the First Knight for a long while.

"Keep your secrets," Gawain said finally. He stood and crossed to the door, pausing there a moment. "We are...we are a family here, Lance. No one would see you suffer needlessly, for whatever reason that you have imagined."

Gawain did not wait for Lancelot's response and instead closed the door and left him there, to wallow in his own misery for a while longer.

**-RP: ****The Flight From Happiness****-**

Vanora sighed, leaning back against the chest of her lover. Bors was feigning sleep after a long night in the tavern, but she knew better. She knew him, after all, and there was nothing that Bors did so quietly as feigning sleep. He was a loud man, with a brash nature and a hot temper, and silent was not something that he did, even in the deepest, most fatigued sleeps that she had ever seen him in.

Now even his breaths were measured and regular, quiet and controlled.

"You're fooling no one, love," she murmured and was rewarded with a slight guffaw and a tightening of his arms around her waist.

"M'tryin'," he said gruffly.

"Failin'," she countered.

"Gimme a minute 'n I'll be asleep," he said, resting his head back further against the wall that they sat against. The tavern had closed nearly two hours prior and they'd spent the better part of that time ushering their children home in the care of a startlingly sober Galahad and cleaning up after the night's business.

It had been a busy evening, and even Lancelot had graced them with his presence. News had reached them that Arthur had set sail on a vessel three days prior and would be back on British soil and to their wall in only a few days time. Everyone had celebrated. Celebrated and left their mess behind.

"Everything will be back to normal in a few days," Vanora said.

"Don't count on't," Bors countered, cracking one eye open to look down at her. "Lance'll be better, but somfin's up." Vanora groaned at that and buried her head into his shoulder.

"You boys can't just be happy, can you?" she asked.

"I'm perfectly happy, flower," Bors said, voice unusually clear and genuine. She glanced up at him and squeezed his wrist.

"Perfectly?" she asked, voice claiming that she knew it was a lie.

"As perfectly as can be expected," Bors countered.

"Like I said, you boys just can't be happy." She closed her eyes again and grimaced at the feel of the ground on her backside.

"Sometimes's difficult, love," he admitted.

"Sometimes it's easier than you're willing to admit," she said.

"We're men, flower, we're not gunna do an'thin the easy way," Bors said with a chuckle. Vanora couldn't help but laugh along with him. The pair fell silent for a long while, and in the morning, if Vanora woke up on the ground with a kink in her back and the imprint of a chair leg in her shin, she did not complain.

**-RP: ****The Flight From Happiness****-**

Galahad was...

_Well, what was that?_ He sat up uneasily and rolled to the side, vomiting up everything but his heels. _S'unpleasant. _

He'd tucked all of Bors and Vanora's little hellions into bed the night before and had made it nearly to his dormitory before it started again. The worry and panic. The taste in the back of his throat that put him on edge.

_Few more days. Few more days. _He hadn't known his sister for long, and in that time Tristram, Gawain, Dagonet and Bors had spent more time with her individually than he had. It wasn't until she was an ocean away and on a continent known to be under Roman rule that he realized it though.

"Get up."

_Easier said than fucking accomplished_. He glared up at Gawain's face. How the other man had found him was beyond the youngest knight, but he was surely hoping to be lost again.

"You heard me, pup," Gawain insisted, nudging him with his shoe. _S'that was what it was._

"It's still early. Leave me," Galahad insisted, slumping back to the ground. He winced as the corner of his collar soaked through with something wet and still warm.

"You're laying in your own vomit," Gawain said, and even Galahad could heard the disgust there, could feel it in his own stomach.

"Fine," Galahad groaned and rolled onto his back, glaring up at the sunlight. _Where did I..._

"You're in front of the tavern," Gawain supplied.

"In front?"

"In front."

"Christ," Galahad groaned and forced himself upright, glaring out at the early morning sun and the people giving him odd looks as they bustled past. "You could have moved me."

"I could have," Gawain agreed and extended a hand, which Galahad took and allowed to pull him to his feet. "But there's a lesson here, I'm sure. Arthur would know what it is, and I'd hate to stand in the way of your education."

"I need to leave, Gawain," Galahad said as he made it to his feet.

"I know, pup. We'll get you to a proper bed."

"No, I need to _leave_," Galahad stressed, glancing around the town.

"You've been saying that for months." Gawain pulled Galahad along toward the dormitories, taking the stares that they were getting in good humor. "Besides, you're not leaving without Lykopis."

"Arthur should be back in a few days time. When she returns, I want to be ready to leave," Galahad amended. Gawain just nodded and helped him along. Galahad had never been more grateful for his remarkably accepting best friend.

**-RP: ****The Flight From Happiness****-**

"I am not your slave!"

"But you are Arthur's man, and as such-"

"I am no one's man, love, but I am a man. I'd gladly show you-" Gawain sighed as he heard something shatter against the door he stood outside. Guinevere and Lancelot had been inside for the better part of the day, occasionally working between the shouts and violence that he heard now.

Shortly ago, a short, rather squat woad had come to find him. He'd spoken in broken English, and it had taken Gawain the better part of five minutes to try and figure out what the hand gestures made before he heard an ear splitting shriek and knew.

He leaned his head against the wooden door and sighed. Why was Galahad or Bors never available for these things? It had been eight weeks since Arthur had left, and his wife and First Knight had been at nearly constant odds with each other spanning the dreaded cold shoulder to the screaming match that was currently occurring. Bolstering his courage with the knowledge he'd heard from a scout that morning that Arthur had indeed landed on British soil, he straightened and opened his eyes.

It had gone silent on the other side of the door, a bad side if he'd ever heard one. He twisted the knob and pushed it open, noting the shattered pottery that screeched beneath the door. "If one of you is dead, Arthur is going to be-"

Gawain wasn't sure what he expected to see. He wasn't really sure if he expected Lancelot to be bleeding out on the floor or for perhaps Guinevere to be unconscious from some heavy-handed blow. He knew some things that he didn't expect. To see a llama. To be tackled by a harem of beautiful women. To interrupt a hot and heavy make out session that had proceeded to hands under clothing and bodies pressed tightly against a desk.

He was correct on two out of three.

"Gawain..." Guinevere said as she stared, wide eyed and nearly frightened at the door. Her dark eyes flickered to the First Knight, who was situated between her knees as she sat on a wooden desk. Lancelot did not say anything, he simply detached Guinevere's hands from his shirt front and fled out the back door.

"Lance!" Gawain shouted after him, but the man was gone.

"You can't say anything," Guinevere murmured, staring blankly in the space in front of her. She had not looked at him since Lancelot had left, and Gawain was sure that if he was standing there, in front of her, she wouldn't see him.

"This...has been going on for some time?" he asked, almost hesitant to know the answer.

"It was never going on," Guinevere said, and finally, those eyes flickered to him, swimming in tears and drawn at the center, as if she was trying to keep from breaking down. Something in that enraged Gawain, sparked some defensive part in his soul.

"Lancelot is a lewd man, but he is honorable. He wouldn't have-"

"He didn't," Guinevere cut him off, deflating his ire and putting him at ease again. "I did."

"Ah," Gawain said, unsure of where to go or do from there.

"I command you, as your Queen, to never speak of this. It will not happen again, and Arthur should not have to shoulder the knowledge that it ever did. I am to blame for this, and if you harbor no respect for me, respect the honor of your fellow knight and the happiness of your commander." She brushed past him after straightening her dress.

Gawain stood alone in the room, eyeing the broken pottery and the messed desk. He stared after both doors a long moment before crossing to the desk and settling into the seat with a heavy sigh. He rested his elbows on the desk and his face in his hands.

"Fuck!" he shouted, sweeping both hands across the desk and sending the messed contents to the floor.


	15. Chapter 15

Alright cats and kittens. This chapter was fun to write. Extremely fun. More fun than I had imaged it would be. **It is, however, probably where some of you are going to jump ship. In Arthurian legend, Lancelot and Guinevere have a tryst which drives a wedge between the knights and leaves them both derelict for years. This chapter addresses that mythology in a bit of a twisted manner. If you don't like it, my sincere apologies. In your mind, this chapter can never happen. Arthur and his lot return home. Gawain never speaks of what he saw, and they live out their lives in happy pleasure. **For those that enjoy it, the story lives on. This chapter has more feels in it than the rest of the story combined, and I feel like I need a cootie shot or something...

**Chapter 15 - Where Darkness Tread **

He was the most vile thing that ever walked the earth. That ever drew breath. He was a damned man with a damned mind, and if someone found him before he made the damnable horse cooperate, he'd be far more damned for seeing their faces.

"Come on, you ignorant beast," he hissed at the mare, his mare surely enough, whose spirit he had always admired in the past. The horse danced sideways in her small paddock, eyeing him with a wild eye that she had never had around him in the past. Once more, he reached forward to snag the reigns he'd just managed to get over her head before she caught wind of something she'd not liked and rebelled against him.

Night had fallen many hours ago, and he'd been gathering his things since. The darkness outside had matched the darkness in his mind as he'd packed, throwing breeches and a riding cloak into a ruck sack along with a week's worth of rations that he'd stolen from Vanora's while the woman was distracted. He'd left a small stack of coin behind, knowing full well that it would pay for the food but not the drink that he'd gotten into while there.

He snatched the reigns and pulled, bringing her down to the ground again. She screamed, rising up on her hind legs and lashing out. Years had taught him to simply sidestep, but alcohol made him slow, and a pain exploded along his elbow before the mare settled back down.

"Damnable creature," he muttered, holding the bleeding gash at his elbow. He did not hear the faint creaking of the stable door behind him, nor note that the light from his lantern increased by another behind him.

"Who is here?"

He knew that voice. By the man's own God, he knew that voice, and he'd never hoped to hear it again. Never thought that his heart could handle the shame if he did. It could not.

"Turn around, and leave my knight's horse be," Arthur commanded, and Lancelot moved to comply, letting both hands drop to his sides. He took a step backward, and immediately, the mare calmed. He was going to die there, he was sure. Arthur would see the betrayal on his face and run him through. And despite the swords laying at his feet, he would not move to deny his commander the revenge.

"Turn around!" Arthur commanded again. He obeyed. How could he not obey? His commander was stern faced, with his hand on the blade at his hip. Behind him, Dagonet walked, leading both of their horses, and if he looked, he could see Tristram not far behind.

"Lancelot!" Arthur shouted, dropping his hands. A smile exploded across his face, and if that didn't tear a whole in Lancelot's chest nothing ever would. Arthur crossed the space between them in several long steps and pulled Lancelot into a rough embrace, cradling the back of his head like a brother. He let himself pretend, for a moment, and wrapped his arms around the other man, returning the embrace with vigor before he was shoved at arm's length and examined with a critical eye.

"Hello, Arthur," he said easily, as if it was any other day, any other greeting.

"You look healed," Arthur said, voice dripping was happiness at the comment. His eyes rolled over Lancelot from head to foot, and finally, over to his ruck sack and saddle, packed for a long ride and resting in the hay. Those dark eyes came back up to his, confused and hurt.

"I'm leaving," Lancelot said firmly, as if by willing it, he could ignore the sickened feeling that came with the idea, with leaving Arthur alone on British soil.

"Why-" Arthur stopped himself short, schooling his features and taking a step backward. "You were going to leave before we returned."

"I was," Lancelot did not deny it. He'd have run now, if there wasn't Arthur and two of his knights between himself and freedom.

"I gave you an order before I left," Arthur said, as if trying to figure out a puzzle that he was missing pieces to. Lancelot prayed to a God he did not believe in that Arthur never got those pieces.

"And I have carried it out. It is time for me to return home," he bit his lip to keep him from speaking more at the resolved depression that sank down over Arthur's face. He turned then and shouldered his saddle. His mare was remarkably calm now, and she took the saddle easily. He threw the ruck sack over one shoulder and pulled himself in the saddle. His injuries protested, but they were all but healed and would only ache for months to come.

He buried his heels in the creature's sides, and she went without complaint, past Arthur, who would not look away from him, even as Lancelot ducked his own head and avoided that gaze. Past Dagonet who only stared at him with that thoughtful expression as if he was working something out in his head. Past Tristram, who would not look at him, which was far more painful than Lancelot had ever thought it would be. Beside him, Lykopis stood, and she stared into his soul as if she knew, and from the expression on her face, she did.

The damned wolf had always been too observant for her own good.

_Were you born in love with your Roman commander, or did he have to father you along first?_

**-RP: Where Darkness Tread-**

Arthur stood in the stable for several long minutes after Lancelot had left, just staring at the space the other man had occupied. Of course, he'd known that his knights would eventually return to their homelands. In his head, he knew this. He knew that they'd lives and families before him and that the Roman military had stolen them away. Again, somewhere in the recesses of conscious thought, he knew that they would all leave. In his heart, well...the heart was a different matter entirely.

"Leave the horses," Arthur said on a whisper. "I'll see them unsaddled and taken care of."

"Arthur-"

"No, Dagonet," Arthur said firmly. "Go rest. You all need it. Please see that Lark has a place to stay that is comfortable, if she chooses to stay. Dinadan as well." He did not mean to dismiss his knights. He truly did not, but there were things in his mind that needed settling with the things in his heart, and he couldn't do that with them there.

A Roman Commander had to be strong at all times. A King had to be stronger.

Lykopis was the last to leave, and as she left, she laid a hand on his shoulder briefly before closing the door behind her. There would be a wolf at the door, he knew, a silent sentinel that had watched over them all for years. He was a young boy when she started, and a young boy, even one with the name of Arthur Castus, could be just a boy again.

Because a boy could be weak, even if for a moment.

A boy could cry silently as he licked his wounds and went about his tasks.

A boy could love his friend deeply and completely and without thought or question to dark eyes and thin lips.

**-RP: Where Darkness Tread-**

Tristram was not a fool, as much as some would like to think so. He was a quiet man, and he was observant more than most. It did not take Lykopis's meaningful glance after Lancelot had fled for him to know that something had happened. He left Lykopis standing guard over Arthur and walked through the sleeping town on silent feet. Dagonet had taken Lark and Din to the tavern to see if perhaps Vanora had a room available for the night.

Tristram checked Galahad's room first, as it was the first he came upon, but the man was gone. Not rare enough to worry him, he continued on. Gawain was in his room, awake and sitting rigid at the end of his bed. He startled when the door opened, and Tristram raised an eyebrow at the man.

"You've returned then," he said, more solemn than was warranted.

"To what though?" he asked.

"Nothing," Gawain said sharply, rising to his feet and pacing the length of the room. He sighed, rubbing at the back of his neck, and Tristram had to do little but stare at him to get him to continue speaking. "At least, nothing we will tell Arthur about."

"It wouldn't be the first time we've kept silence for Arthur's benefit," Tristram said easily. "Speak." Gawain sat down heavily on a chair and indicated the end of his bed for Tristram. The scout rolled his eyes heavenward before taking a seat.

"Guinevere and Lancelot," Gawain said simply.

"Eh," Tristram said. "Lancelot and every woman in the outpost."

"No," Gawain said firmly, fixing Tristram with a look that he had seen in the past on the man's face. "Not this time."

"Not enough to have made him leave," Tristram said, jaw slack. The confusion slipped from his face and he frowned.

"He left?" Gawain asked, but he was nodding as if it made sense. "He fled when I found them."

"Did you speak to him?"

"I couldn't find him, and Guinevere insisted that it remain a secret. She did not want Lancelot's name soiled with her impulse."

"Her impulse?" Tristram asked, eyes flickering toward the door. There was a growing need in his spine to move, the source of which he wasn't sure of.

"She was the..." Gawain made an odd gesture with his hands. "Well, it wasn't as if Lancelot stopped her, but she apparently started everything."

"Eh, the things you all do before thinking," Tristram said with a groan, rising to his feet.

"What do you mean?"

"You are not so blind," Tristram countered and left the room, Gawain on his heels. Tristram found Lykopis where he'd left her, leaning back against the door. She rose when they approached, and eyed Gawain a long moment before side stepping and letting the pair of them in. It did not take Tristram's eyes to know that she followed them.

Arthur was leaning against the back stall. All of the horses had been relieved of their burdens and placed in their stalls with fresh hay and water. Their saddles were over the doors of the paddocks, and all equipment had been neatly stored. Too neatly, really, for how quickly it was all done.

"Arthur," Tristram said firmly, drawing the man from his silent study of the ground.

"Tristram?" Arthur asked, as if the world around him had been ripped from beneath his feet. "I sent you all to bed. It was a long journey, and-"

"And it will be longer the more you speak," Tris cut him off, taking hesitant steps until he stood in front of his commander and drop into a crouch in front of him. "You need go find Lancelot and bring him back." Arthur studied his scout for a moment, and despite the firmness in his jaw, he shook his head and waved him away.

"Lancelot is free to go as he chooses, as are the rest of you," Arthur said. He shook his head firmly and rose to his feet, leaving Tristram to follow. "I would ask that the rest of you give notice before you take your leave. It would make defending the wall easier and I would appreciate the chance to say goodbye to my men."

"Arth-"

"Eh!" Tristram was pushed aside roughly, and he took a few stuttered steps to the side before righting himself. Lykopis had pushed past him, and had taken Arthur by the front of his cloak, pressing him against the wall, her forearm across his throat. "Lykopis." He warned her, and she shot him a glare over her shoulder. He put a hand on Gawain's chest as he came forward and shook his head. If the wolf had an idea, he was more than willing to let her run with it.

"After Arthur Castus announced to the knights that Rome had a final mission for them, I was angry. He offered them death. He offered my brother death. So I went to find him, and I thought I had. I cornered him in an alley, I slipped down off of an overhanging roof, and I drew this dagger." She held it up for him to see. "I tried to pin him to a wall, just like this, but he moved more quickly than I'd seen him before. He countered, and when I saw his face, I realized that it wasn't you, it was Lancelot."

"I never knew-"

"He thought I was an assassin, and I thought he was a moron. He asked me if I was born an assassin. I asked him if he was born in love with you." Lykopis released him, and Arthur rubbed at his neck absentminded.

"We all bear love in our hearts for each other. It is born-"

"That is not what I was talking about then, and it's not what I'm talking about now," she cut him off. "So tell me Arthur Castus, were you born in love with your First Knight, or did it grow when you weren't looking? Did it not come to the front of your mind until you married a woman that had pretty brown eyes, dark hair and pale skin?"

Lykopis stared at him hard for a short while as he stared forward, jaw slack. He did not answer her. Tristram watched on, and he nearly chuckled at the sound of realization that Gawain made in the back of his throat.

"He left because he has feelings for you and for Guinevere," Tristram said softly.

"How do you know this?" Arthur asked. His face was as stoic as it had ever been.

"I found them together," Gawain said, but only after a long moment and a glare from the scout.

"I will not stand in the way of the happiness of one of my knights," Arthur said, but his adam's apple bobbed violently in his throat. "If it is what Guinevere desires, then I will-"

There was no amount of pressure on Gawain's shoulder that could keep him from lunging, but it was too late. Lykopis's fist had lashed out and found purchase in Arthur's jaw, sending him careening back a step and into the wall. Gawain's arms closed around her waist and pulled her back behind him, placing himself between the two.

"That's enough," he said uneasily, one hand out in either direction, as though they were two brawlers that might throw themselves at each other again.

"Damn the stubbornness of men," Lykopis growled and turned her back to walk toward the door. "You did not ask me what Lancelot said. You don't ask yourself the right questions, and I won't watch this."

"Wait!" Arthur called, and she paused in the door. "What...what did..."

"If you're asking," Lykopis said when Arthur could not finish the question. "Then you'd better go find him." She left at that, closing the door behind her.

Tristram chuckled as the door shut. It was difficult to argue with her logic, but Arthur might have been more apt to do as she willed if she'd have told him. Because there had been no doubt in the scout's mind of Lancelot's response-maybe not verbal, but there wouldn't have been a response.

"That is your wolf," Arthur said, startling Tristram. He glanced at his commander and shook his head slightly.

"That is Lykopis," Tristram said after a moment. "She is difficult, but she means well." Gawain chuckled at that and crossed to Arthur's horse. He slipped the saddle from the door and drew the bridle up over the giant of a stallion's head. The destrier was more powerful than the rest of their horses, but he was often violent with anyone but Arthur. For once, the beast allowed someone other than his master and took the bridle without question.

"Damn the stubbornness of men," Gawain echoed and smirked over his shoulder at Arthur. Their commander had not moved, and instead was leaning against the wall, face slack as though all strength had fled him. Arthur gave him a half smile. "You look as if you expect a mutiny."

"Should I?" Arthur asked, scrubbing his hands through his hair.

"It is your religion that damns such things, not ours," Tristram said easily. He nudged Arthur's foot with his own. "Would you condemn me if I told you that I lay with Dinadan?" Arthur's head shot up at that, and Tristram couldn't help but laugh at him.

"N-no, if that is your feeling, then I wouldn't-"

"I don't," Tristram cut him off. "But it does happen, in our culture. If you wouldn't condemn me for it, why would we condemn you?"

"Why would Lancelot run?" Arthur asked instead. "If he felt the same, then why would he-"

"What is your religion?" Gawain asked, continuing to ready Arthur's horse.

"I am a Christian," Arthur said easily.

"And how does your religion view such things?" Gawain asked. When Arthur did not respond, he chuckled. "And you ask why Lancelot would leave? To love someone and watch them marry another. To have that other express interest in you. I might run." He glanced up at that, face honest and clear. "I would not have the courage to watch the one I loved love another."

Tris watched the two for a long moment. He saw the way Arthur's eyes lowered, the doubt there, and he sighed.

"Eh," he said, tapping the man in the chest with the back of his hand. "You are no coward." He waited for Arthur to meet his eyes. Tris nodded to him and left him there, standing in the stable. Arthur had a wayward knight to retrieve home. Tristram had a wayward friend to speak to. Arthur would do his great deed now, in the darkness of night. Tristram would wait until morning, when the darkness in his own mind had been chased away by the daylight.

**-RP: Where Darkness Tread-**

Lancelot had been riding for the better part of the night. He'd taken the long road south, toward the port city where he might purchase fare to the mainland. His certificate of safe transport throughout the Roman kingdom lay at the bottom of his pack.

The shipping town wouldn't be far off now, and he let his mare rest as he set up a campfire to chase away the chill in his limbs and stomach. As he saw there eating his stolen meal, the chill left everywhere but his chest.

He glared into the fire as it flickered and consumed the wood he fed it. He'd been like that once. He'd consumed people and things and emotions and they had simply been reduced to the finest powder of ash. Now he knew how that ash continued to live after him. A faint drizzle started up, and the rain drops hissed as they hit the flame. He sighed and tossed the last of a roll into the flames.

"I've never known you to waste food." The voice was warped by the rain and pop from the fire.

"Show yourself," Lancelot shouted, rising quickly and drawing both blades from his back in one movement.

"Peace," Arthur said, hands up. How he'd snuck up behind Lancelot on the road was beyond the First Knight, but there he stood, leading that great stallion of his along by the reigns. Lancelot sighed and sheathed his swords. "I thought I'd see you to the port."

"No need," Lancelot said and turned back toward his fire. "I'm sure you have more important matters-" He was cut off as a hand spun him around by the shoulder. Arthur was behind him, only a few fleeting inches between them, and Lancelot had to focus on the horse over his shoulder to keep himself from walking down bad paths. He'd left. He'd left Arthur and his doe eyed queen was there to keep him warm at night.

"There are no matters more important than settling what would make Lancelot du Lac a coward," Arthur said firmly. Something like fire flickered in his stomach at that, angry and rebelling. "Ah, there it is." The flame flickered and died quickly.

"There is what?" Lancelot asked, and the smile that slowly stretched over Arthur's face was worth it.

"My strength," he said as if it explained everything. "It had fled me for a while."

"You've never had a weak moment in your life, Arthur," Lancelot chided and took a step back. He turned his back and ringed the fire. With the dying embers between them, Lancelot felt more comfortable, more solid on his own two feet.

"And yet, it is gone again," Arthur said. He crouched down by the fire, holding his hands out to capture what warmth was left in the slowly smothering fire. The rain picked up as they had spoke, and now it dripped down his face to the end of his nose.

"You'll catch your death out there," Lancelot chided as he lifted his saddle and walked toward the woods that edged the road. He lay it beneath one of the old oaks and leaned back against the trunk. Arthur followed suit, removing his red cloak and shaking it free of rain.

"I'll not return with you," Lancelot said firmly. "You've the woads to defend your borders, and I have to find my family."

"I rode out to see you safely to the port," Arthur said, though there was a scowl on his face that Lancelot knew well. He'd seen it from time to time when Arthur had found something particularly damning. He'd seen it that day at Marius's estate. It is the same scowl that he had imagined on Arthur's face when he found out about...

"Then Gawain told you," Lancelot said, pushing away from the tree. "You needn't follow me to assure I leave your island. I'll go, and I'll go of my own free will."

"Gawain didn't tell me anything that I shouldn't have seen, that Lykopis didn't see. She's known you for a fraction of the time I have, and I still didn't see it." Arthur's scowl deepened for a moment at that.

"So the wolf told you," Lancelot countered, turning toward him. The fire was back, churning low in his stomach. What right did a wolf have of knowing what Lancelot himself didn't?

"Not everything," Arthur countered and turned toward his first knight. The shine was back in his eyes, and his jaw was set in a stubborn line, a line he could have recognized with his eyes closed. Dark eyes and thin lips that he should have known before. "I want to know something."

"Then ask it and let me be."

"When Marius came to the wall, you saw Lykopis in the town," Arthur said. "She thought you were me, and she drew a knife on you. She asked you a question that night. I want to know what your answer was."

"She asked me many questions that night," Lancelot hedged. "Some I answered, and others I didn't."

"You know the one I want answered," Arthur said.

"I am not your God, Arthur. I'm not in your mind."

"Then let me ask you: where you born in love with me, or did it grow in you as it grew in me?" Arthur turned toward his first knight and watched as the panic flooded across his face.

"I don't-"

"Because she asked me something similar last night, when I was lost in my grief. She asked me if I had always loved you or if I'd only just realized it." Arthur watched Lancelot closely after the admission. The panic leaked out of his face. The corners of his mouth quirked ever so slightly in that way that he had when he wanted to make a lewd comment but was refraining.

"I am an attractive specimen, but you're a married man, Arthur. What would your pope say?"

"Recently, I've come to feel disillusioned with my religion and think, perhaps, it's time to be a little more pagan, if only just in this," Arthur replied.

"I am a demanding lover," Lancelot joked. "You'd never keep pace."

"Then it is a good thing I am a man married to a woman that Gawain found you with while I was gone," Arthur said, taking a slow step forward, as if to prove to the other man that he was not angry.

"Arthur, this is not something that-"

Lancelot had kissed many women. He had known the soft lips worried by the teeth of virgins. He'd known the chap-lipped whores that frequented the taverns. He'd once even sampled the bright red painted lips of one of the Roman ladies that liked to tour the distant holdings of Rome.

In all of his years though, as both a knight and as a child before that, he had never been kissed by a man. It was over only a moment after it had begun, and when Arthur pulled away, he rested his forehead against Lancelot's own.

"Come back," Arthur urged.

"This does not end well for anyone," Lancelot said despite the ache in his own chest.

"It does," Arthur countered. "It does if we don't care." Lancelot let himself imagine that future. A world where he didn't care. He tried. Nothing came.

"We do," Lancelot said and pulled away with a wry smile. A defeated smile the likes of which Arthur had no desire to ever see. "And I was not lying. I need to see my homeland again."

"Then wait for Galahad. He's wanted to ride out for weeks."

"If I go back..." Lancelot lost himself in that thought for a long moment. "If I go back I won't leave again. I am a strong man, Arthur, but I am not invincible." Arthur pulled away at that and nodded.

"I'd ask you to wait for him then," Arthur said, and he was their leader again, their commander who thought after their safety and strategy.

"I will wait for him for three days," Lancelot agreed. "After, I move onward."

"Be safe, and if you ever find that you wish to return to Hadrian's Wall, we will be there." Lancelot nodded mindlessly and glared out at the slowly retreating rain. He shouldered his ruck sack in one easy movement.

"Be safe, Arthur," Lancelot said over his shoulder. He'd re-saddled his mare before Arthur stepped out from under the treeline and swung himself into his own saddle. Lancelot did not look back at his commander as he pulled himself into the saddle and urged the mare away.

"Lancelot!" Arthur shouted after him. He turned over his shoulder at that. "I'd have kept pace." He couldn't help the smile that quirked the corker of his mouth at that, or the thoughts that sprang unbidden to his mind of holding Arthur to that claim.

"Perhaps one day, we'll know," he called back and allowed the mare to continue forward. Perhaps one day, he told himself. That might be just about right.

**-RP: Where Darkness Tread-**

The sunlight did little to quell the darkness in his mind, and Vanora's cheerful delivery of his breakfast failed to do anything more. He picked darkly at a bowl of porridge and three fat rashers of bacon that had been laid over the top.

"Morning," Gawain said as he eased himself down opposite Tristram on the bench.

"Eh," Tris grunted and tore at a piece of bacon.

"Back to your verbose self then," Gawain said, waving at one of Vanora's serving girls. The young thing was sweet faced and smelled of some flower that Gawain couldn't place. She laid his breakfast before him with a nod and a 'sir' and went about her way. That, he decided then, was the best kind of serving girl for the mornings.

"Arthur has not returned," Tristram offered as he stabbed at his bowl.

"Arthur is competent," Gawain said as he tucked into his own meal. His next words came through a mouthful of half chewed bacon. "I'm more worried about the man and woman that Dagonet just led in." The man's eyes had focused hard on something over Tristram's shoulder, and the scout half turned to see Dag leading Lark and Din into the tavern.

"Lark and Dinadan," Tristram offered their names, and with that, he gave them his back. It was an obvious enough gesture, even to Gawain, who had a tendency to overlook such things. A turned back meant either they were trusted or no true threat.

"No names that I know," Gawain said. Tristram had to respect the way that the lion-maned knight seemed to respect his words and yet watch his back at the same time. Dagonet would bring them to the knight's table; Tristram knew as much. It did not stop a stone from forming in his throat though as Dinadan took a seat across from him at the table. Gawain spared the new comers a nod before strategically-or perhaps he was only hungry-shoving a large bite of porridge into his mouth.

"Good morrow," Dagonet said with a nod as he settled in beside Dinadan, leaving the Lark to occupy the seat next to Tristram. She did, though with enough room between them to set another person, and for that, Tristram could have kissed the girl. "Behave," Dag ordered, eyes locked firmly on Lark. Tris smiled at that, and for a moment, he'd though he was going to have to thumb Gawain hard on the back the way the man choked.

"A wild thing then," Gawain offered with a smile that he so rarely offered to anyone. His eyes slowly roamed across the woman's skin-far more than most would consider appropriate, Tristram noted. She'd not changed from what she'd worn in the arena. Leather and cotton covered what was immodest but left her legs bare from thigh to just below the knee, where leather boots started. Arms bare from shoulder to fingertip were only interrupted by the mismatched leather bracers. The longer one, Tristram was sure, hid a blade of some kind, knowing the gladiatrix.

"Look at me like that much longer, and you'll find out," she replied, shifting awkwardly as a serving girl laid breakfast in front of her.

"Not at breakfast," Dagonet said, half exasperated and half exhausted. He'd already demolished his own bacon and was glaring nearly sadly down at the porridge, as if the idea of eating it was daunting. Tristram was not the only one to catch the glance, and in a moment, three more strips were tossed on top of his bowl. Tris raised an eyebrow at the woman beside him. The gesture was not unnoticed by any.

"How is a slave to adjust to meat without vomiting up their heels?" she growled and took a bite of the flavorless mush that was Vanora's porridge. "Besides, I've seen gladiators half his size put down half of a goat without belching." Gawain spared the girl after that and agreed, reaching around the silent Dinadan to poke at Dagonet's side.

"Dag!" Bors's booming voice startled none of the knights, but both Dinadan and Lark flinched as the big man shouted his friend's name and collapsed onto the bench beside him, giving him a hard _thwap_ on his back. Tristram just made out the faint flicker of metal at Lark's forearm before it disappeared again, labeling the man a non-threat.

"Bors," Dag greeted as he chewed at his bacon.

"Should'a come'n told me you lot were back," Bors said with a stern glare. "Would'a made ya som'fin ta eat."

"You mean you'd have made Vanora come to the kitchen in the middle of the night?" Dagonet asked with a warning tone.

"Nah, been learnin'," Bors said, puffing his chest up with pride.

"He's not killed anyone yet," Gawain offered with a shrug. "Vanora will need real help soon enough, but he's served."

"Oy! I'll have you know I made that breakfast you're enjoying," Bors defended. "Not ever'day you get to enjoy my fine cookin'."

"Tasteless slop," Gawain teased.

"Eh," Tris said. "No wonder Vanora keeps you home."

"Hey!" Bors shouted, face going red. "Girl doesn't seem to mind it." He gestured across the table at Lark, who was scraping the last of it out with her spoon.

"S'good," she complimented, dropping the spoon into the bowl and pushing it away.

"She's been in an arena for fourteen years, Bors," Dagonet said easily. "Her taste can't be trusted."

"Thas'it," Bors said, rising to his feet. "Nothin' for the lot of you." He walked around the table, stealing away half eaten bowls and stacking them up in his arms. He swiped Gawain's last, and after noting the untouched porridge, he set it down in front of Lark. "'Cept you, cause you're skin'n bones. 'Nora'll kill me if she sees me stealin' your food."

"What about the rest of us?" Gawain asked.

"I'd say you've got it coming," Vanora said, sliding up behind her lover and taking the bowls from him after dropping a kiss on his shoulder. "Besides, Arthur just called for you."

"Arthur's returned?" Tristram asked, eyes sliding to Gawain.

"Came through the gate a few minutes ago. He ordered the stable boy to bring the news to you lot." She sighed as she looked over the table. "Lancelot and Galahad still passed out drunk?"

"No," Gawain said darkly, rising from his seat. "Galahad is in the stable, readying for a ride to nowhere."

"Just get to Arthur," Vanora said dismissively. "I need the table." The knights, long since used to such dismissal, rose without complaint. Tris watched Dinadan sit there a moment before he tapped him on the shoulder and cocked his head toward the door. Lark was already up and following Bors, Gawain and Dagonet out.

"I'm not one of his knights," Dinadan said uneasily. "I don't follow his orders, and I don't expect his protection."

"You would have been," Tristram said, and there was a darkness coloring his voice that even he was shocked by. "And you don't have his protection. You have mine."

"I didn't ask for yours either," Dinadan said, rising from his seat. Tris pushed him half-heartedly toward the door. Dinadan had always been a happy young man with a quick wit and a quicker tongue that made Tris laugh more than frown. As an adult, Tristram was sore pressed to find anything about the man amusing. He had to wonder, for a moment, if it was him or Dinadan that had changed so drastically.


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter Sixteen: Chasing Ghosts**

Tristram found Arthur seated at the round table, which was not such an unusual thing, but what was, this time, was where he'd chosen to sit. Over the years, certain chairs had become known to belong to one knight or another. Alliances had formed and shattered in those chairs, and they had always been left there, empty and honored, out of respect of those fallen comrades.

Arthur's seat had always been of slightly higher back, though to those that looked on without the knowledge, they would not have noted the different. It was how Arthur wanted it, afterall. They might catch the slightly worn area just over the shoulder, where Arthur had always hung his blade, close at hand should it be needed.

Today, Arthur had pulled all chairs away from the table save for one, and even without the others for comparison, Tristram could tell it was not his own. There were two worn areas, twins to each other, on either shoulder, worn low and smooth from where Lancelot had always hung his blades.

The other chairs lined either side of the hall, pushed well back away from the table. Tristram could easily spot his own, for there were little gouges in the back, where his hawk had settled on occasion. Dagonet, Gawain and Galahad stood around the room, their faces as confused as he felt. Bors was glaring mercilessly at Arthur from the other side of the room, his back pressed against the wall.

"Arthur, what is this?" Tristram asked uneasily.

"When we built this table," Arthur said, staring down at his hands. "When we built this table, we swore an oath to defend this land and each other. To sit always as equals and to never value one opinion over the other. That oath was a lie."

"Like hell it was!" Bors shouted, but he was quieted by a look from Dagonet, who's own face had grown grave.

"You were men bound as slaves to Rome," Arthur said. "You could not swear such an oath of your own free will, and there was the wrath of your commander hanging over your head. I ask you now, if you will retake that oath, as free men."

Tristram sighed out a breath. Arthur was a man of action, not words, but those words were just as important to the man. The scout scratched at his neck a moment before crossing to his chair, the one not far off with the little gouges in the back. He picked it up easily with one hand and sat it in its customary spot before taking a seat. He threw one leg haphazardly over his knee and leaned into the armrest, hand under his chin in a gesture that he'd worn time and time again. _I am bored, but I am here. Direct me, command me, and should I find it right, I will follow. _

Arthur's gaze found his, and he nodded once, firmly, in thanks. He looked up then, giving each of his standing knights a long, individual look, a look weighted with responsibility.

"Well, fuck," Bors said. "Can't let you do anythin' for yourself." He gripped his chair and gave it a toss over the ground, the legs screeching in protest at the treatment before it clattered into the side of the table. He threw himself into it as he always did and his legs soon found their spot atop the table. Arthur smiled at him, but Bors glared on.

"Thank you, my friend," Arthur said, a way of repentance if Tristram had ever seen one.

"Should'n haf'ta write it down for you, Arthur," Bors said. "S'my land. My family. Here." He slammed one closed fist down on the table. Arthur nodded and looked to the rest. Dagonet had already retrieved his own chair and crossed to set it beside Bors. The giant of a man seated himself with grace and leaned against the table.

Galahad stood on, staring sightlessly at the table for a long moment. Gawain stood beside him, the lion-knight watching the younger man. Finally, Gawain lay a hand against his shoulder.

"We've promises to keep," Gawain said firmly. As he said the words, Galahad's shoulders sagged, as if a weight had been taken from them. "But I would return, after, if you'd have me." Galahad's head whipped up at that, eyes wide and confused, as if he hadn't expected Gawain to return. Tristram did not miss the way that the older knight could not meet the pup's gaze.

"Take a seat, my friend," Arthur offered. Gawain nodded and let his hand slide slowly from Galahad's shoulder. He did as instructed and retrieved his chair.

"I can't...I can't promise that I will return," Galahad said. Finally, he looked up, meeting the eyes of Arthur and the rest of the knights in turn.

"As is your right," Arthur offered, but there was a sadness in his tone. Arthur rose from his seat and turned toward the chair he'd once occupied. He lifted it then, up and over the table, and set it in the hollow center, tucked into the table exactly opposite where Lancelot would have normally sat. Quietly, he crossed the room to Galahad's own, and repeated the gesture.

"Arthur-" Galahad said, but he stopped himself, teeth biting viciously into his bottom lip.

"In the past we have honored our dead in such a way. It is time though, to recognize the new and make room for that." His eyes slid over the remaining chairs that lined both walls. They held the ghosts of their past, with little delicate changes that indicated each of their previous owners. Not far away, Tristram could see the heavy split in the back of one chair where Kay had used it to defend Arthur a woad blade that had hidden in the room. Down a bit, he was sure he'd see Ywain's chair, where his heavy bastard sword had worn the chair's shoulder nearly down to the mid back.

"I have asked several of Merlin's trusted if they would join us here, at this table," Arthur said, looking around for their reactions. Tristram was not a blind man, and he was sure that even a blind man could see the reaction. None were happy with that news. "All have declined."

"Course they did," Bors said with a huff.

"There are two who I will speak with that I would see seated here, should they will it," Arthur said. "Dagonet and Tristram were with me in Rome, and they know I have brought back a young woman who was held by the Romans for the last fourteen years. She was taken from your homeland and has been in their arena for her adult life. She has no place, and I would offer her one here."

"Arthur," Dagonet interrupted. "The Lark is hardly a knight. She does not follow orders, and defending you on the road is hardly an endorsement that I am willing to risk lives upon."

"The little thing?" Bors asked with a laugh. "Girl's not dangerous."

"I would question her ability," Gawain said, but his eyes flickered to Dagonet and Tristram as he spoke, as if looking for a confirmation in his concern.

"Let the Lark prove her worth," Tris said finally. "I have no complaint."

"You can't be serious," Dagonet said. "You saw her, Tris, in that arena. She killed a man from her back."

"You've never laid with a real woman, have you?" Bors asked with a chuckle. "Women kill best from their back."

"I ask you if you would accept her among you, should I speak with her and decide that she is both willing to carry on and is equal to the task." Arthur took a long breath. "This position has been traditionally held by men, and I will not bring a woman in here to be shunned."

"I've no complaints with her gender," Gawain said, hands held up in defense. "I just question if she has the ability."

"Then we will evaluate the skill set of both in my consideration prior to furthering this discussion," Arthur said. He considered the men seated at the table a long moment before looking up at Galahad. "I have another request to make of you, Galahad."

"Ask it," Galahad said firmly. For a moment, Tristram thought he saw the reflection of a man there, in the youth's face.

"Lancelot waits at the port," Arthur said uneasily. "He rides for Sarmatia, and it would ease my mind if the pair of you rode together, if you still intend to leave. He will wait three days for you before moving on alone."

"I will leave this evening," Galahad said firmly. "I have preparations to make, by your leave."

"Thank you," Arthur said. "Please say your goodbyes before leaving. I would not see you leave without a proper goodbye."

"Done," Galahad said and fled out the door. Tristram did not miss the sharp exhale that came from Gawain as the door slammed shut behind him. The rage on his face was clear as he stood and paced the room.

"That boy's been thinking himself out of leaving for months, and you run him off!" Gawain finally said, turning toward Arthur finally.

"He would have gone even without my request. This way, they will go together and be safe."

"He does where I cannot watch his back!" Gawain raged, crossing to the table and slamming flat palms down upon the table. "I have done so for years, Arthur! No one knows better than I how to do it nor how much it is needed."

"Yes, they do," Arthur answered quietly, and the way he refused to look up at that worried Tristram more than he wanted to admit. "I spoke with Lykopis this morning. She will be seeing Galahad to their home." Well...that was that. Gawain settled back into his seat, deflated immediately. None could contest that fact. The wolf had been there to return her brother home, from the first day they'd all been taken from their homes. Tristram knew that as well as any of them, better really, and yet, as he sat there, he could not help but be disappointed.

He stood then, pushing his chair back into place with a firm look at Arthur. He'd not have the man thinking he'd changed his mind, and left.

"Poor kid." He heard Bors from the hall. He was not a child, and there was no reason for pity.

**-RP: Chasing Ghosts-**

Lykopis leaned against Ethris's door, staring in at the smithy as he rummaged around his meager possessions. She already had a riding cloak thrown over her shoulder that was entirely too large for her, but the big man had insisted.

_"I've no use for it here, do I?" _

She rolled her eyes as he tossed a small sack of coins at her.

"Really, Ethris," she said, tossing it back. "I've my own."

"How could you possibly have your own. You've no profession, girl," Ethris countered.

"I've survived this long, Ethris," Lykopis said with a sigh. "There are other ways to make money than smithing."

"If that's a reference to whoring, that stops now," Ethris shot over his shoulder. Lykopis shook her head at the big man and pushed off of the door.

"I came to say goodbye, and I will take your cloak, if it will put you at ease, but you will need your coin. I've traded furs and meat with the village for years and I have few needs. Besides, Arthur is paying our passage to the mainland."

"You'd best be coming back, girl," Ethris said, turning from rummaging through his bag to fix her with a glare. He must have not liked her silence, because in the next moment, he was looking his wife's obsidian necklace around her neck. "Bring that back, or I will find you, girl."

"I'm not your girl, Ethris," Lykopis said, but she did not remove the necklace.

"I've no children, Lykopis," Ethris said. "Let me father those without fathers."

"You'll enjoy this place then," she said with little humor. She had a father, surely enough. She'd just not seen him in fourteen years. "There are many children in need of fathers."

"And a good smithy," Ethris said with more excitement in his voice than she'd ever heard. "Your Arthur is a good man, and he has offered me employment here, should I choose to take it."

"Arthur has been industrious since his return," Lykopis agreed. He'd been to see Lark, Ethris, herself, and she had a suspicious feeling that the man had spoken to Dinadan that morning. Sadly, the man had not gone to his marriage bed, for Lykopis herself had told the Queen that morning that Arthur had returned the night before but had gone on an urgent matter. Guinevere had been shocked to even see her. It had not taken Lykopis's sense of people to read the panic and sorrow in the Queen's face.

"I'll have a full smithy by the time you return," Ethris said. Lykopis rolled her eyes. The man had spoken of her return multiple times since she'd told him of her plan for departure. He'd never asked her if she was coming back. "I'll have that sword of yours finished by then as well."

"I'll hold you to it," she said easily.

"Good," Ethris said. "You'd best be gone then, girl." He held her shoulders a moment before simply patting her cheek gently with his palm and pushing her toward the door.

"Give the world hell, girl!" he called after her as she walked down the hall.

"When have I done anything but?" she called back over her shoulder. His deep laughter accompanied her next few steps.

The sun was high in the sky before she made the stable. Galahad was nowhere to be found, but his things were piled outside of his mare's stall door. She rolled her eyes at he bulk of it all. There was his heavy armor, several satchels of clothing, and finally two large satchels of food and canteens.

"He'll need a pack horse at this rate," she said, leaning against the horse's stall. The mare was a beautiful creature, really, a deep brown color with a star on her forehead. A dull thump drew her attention behind her, and Lykopis turned, looking over the stall door opposite, where a young dapple grey beast stood, head thrust out curiously and snuffing at what he could reach of her. At just shy of three years old, the stallion was the offspring of Arthur's own horse, and he had been a gift Arthur had bestowed upon her that morning claiming that she'd need a horse to keep up with Galahad and Lancelot. The young thing was tall and powerfully built and would be classified as a destrier in another year. An expensive gift, she'd claimed, and he had simply laid a hand on her shoulder, squeezed it, and left her standing in the stable.

The great beast had no name, and while Arthur claimed he was broken and ready for the saddle, Lykopis wasn't so sure. The creature had an infinite supply of curiosity, and with his size, that curiosity was going to be a problem. Lykopis leaned forward and let the destrier nibble at the ends of her hair.

"Oh, fine," she groused and stepped forward. It laid its neck along her shoulder and sniffed down her back. "You'll be the death of me."

"Eh, you'll survive him," Tristram's voice came from the door. He'd been quiet, Lykopis had to give him that much.

"Have you seen him?" she asked. "If it'd been this great thing atop me that day north of the wall, I'd have died there."

"I wouldn't have done that to him," Tris said. "It is a horse to be coveted."

"I'll trade you," she offered as the creature nudged her back with its nose.

"Bel Joeor and I have been together many years," Tristram said with a shake of his head. "He and I will not part until one of us is dead."

"Then I suppose I'm stuck with you," Lykopis said, turning back to the large dapple beast.

"Never ride a nameless horse," Tris said, reaching a hand out and stroking him from ear to nose. "If you love him, dismount him before you fight. There is no greater danger for a horse than a rider who is in combat."

"I've ridden before," Lykopis growled. "I don't need the lesson."

"Indulge me," he said, dark eyes going to the saddle over the door. Lykopis sighed and nodded, taking the saddle down and slipping into the stall. The horse perked at that, nudging her with his head and snuffing at her hair. "He likes you."

"I can tell," Lykopis groused as he leaned against her, nearly knocking her into the side of the stall. She threw the blanket and saddle over his back, tightening the straps to her contentment. Tris followed behind her, checking tightness and adjusting as he went. Finally, he frowned at the saddle one last time and nodded.

"Up," he said, standing back and letting her swing up into the saddle. "Hmm..." He circled her, straightening her back and pushing her heel down into the stirrup firmly. "Someone taught you this."

"No one taught me anything," she countered. "Galahad was small, but Dnaestre was teaching him to ride."

"You learn by watching," Tristram said, nodding.

"I've learned things on my own in my thirty years, Tristram," Lykopis said, shifting as the horse turned to nudge at her leg.

"Eh," he said, shifting her position in the saddle with a tap at her hip. "You've half learned, and half learned kills you." Something sparked in Lykopis at that, and she slid off the opposite side of the saddle and ducked down under the great beast's belly and up on the other side, bringing the claws up quickly to Tristram's throat.

"Your the one that dies here," she said, tapping against his neck slightly before pulling away and patting the horse's shoulder. It had stood still, startled or aware of her, when she'd been beneath his belly. "You'll do," she told him.

"You will watch after them," Tristram said as he exited the stall.

"I have done nothing else for years," Lykopis said. "There's little else I know how to do anymore."

"You will watch after yourself," he said, though this time it was more firm, a command. She did not respond and instead eased the bridle onto her horse.

"My mother used to pray to Ares, when I was a child," she said instead. "He was her god of war, and she spoke of how he would ride a great horse into battle by the name of Aithon." She rubbed at the animal's neck.

"Aithon," Tristram tried the name on his tongue. He let Aithon snuff at his hair a moment before leaning away. "You will carry our wolf to Sarmatia, and you will bring her home." He spoke the words to the horse, but he watched Lykopis as he said them.

"He will carry me where I allow him," Lykopis countered. "There is nothing to return to here, if Galahad chooses to remain in Sarmatia."

"Eh," Tris said, patting the horse one last time on the neck and taking a step backward. "Take care, wolf," he said finally. He left her there, standing in the stable alone.

**-RP: Chasing Ghosts-**

Lykopis was going to kill him. She was going to murder her brother before they even made the port. He'd spent the first few hours attempting to make conversation-_you're my sister, I might as well learn something about you_-and the last twelve ignoring her.

Gods be good though, because the city marker was withing eye-shot, and it would be less than an hour before she had Lancelot to buffer them. She'd never thought there'd be a time where she'd wish for Lancelot's company, but as Galahad sent her one more awkward glance, she prayed.

"What about our parents?" Galahad asked, breaking his vigil of silence.

"What about them?"

"What were they like?" he pressed.

"Parents," Lykopis said with a shrug. "Dnaestre was a large man. He was stern faced until the illness. After, one side of his face wouldn't lift, and he struggled with his hand." Lykopis looked over at Galahad, who had not spoken since he'd asked the question. His head was down, and he studied the mane of his horse with great interest. "But you want to hear that he loved you." His head shot up at that.

"I want to hear about them. Anything," he said, but the lost expression had fled his face.

"He loved you like the sun," she said, staring off down the road. "From the first time I put you in his arms, he raised you above everything else. You were small, but he taught you to ride nearly before you walked. When you could walk, he showed you how to hold a sword and draw a bow."

"I remember standing at the bottom of a hill and this giant of a man showing me stances," Galahad said, a smile on his lips.

"That would have been Dnaestre," she said with a nod.

"He was a great man," Galahad said at last. When Lykopis did not respond, he looked over at her and his smile fell. "He wasn't a great man, was he?"

"Dnaestre was-"

"You don't call him father," Galahad interrupted. "I've never heard you say the word."

"He wasn't my father," she said with a shrug. "I had no father, and you had no mother." His facial expression fell further, and Lykopis silently berated herself. "Until the Romans came," she said. "Then our mother mourned the son that she did not let herself know."

"Why would she not..." he paused and took a breath. "She loved you?"

"In her own way," Lykopis said. "Anaxilea was...our father's people warred with the Amazons for many generations. Our mother was taken as spoils of one of those wars. She saw a son as of your father's people. She saw me as one of the Amazons, another soldier."

"That is no mother," Galahad said firmly. "I will not mourn if she is dead."

"Neither will I," Lykopis agreed. "You should know that when the Romans came, she asked me to bring you home. It is her armor that I wear, and it is her orders that I carry out when I bring you home. Against her own will, she loved you." They fell silent after that for a long while. Lykopis let Galahad thing and stare off into the distance. It was a heavy thing, learning that your parents hated each other, that they did not love their children as parents should.

"And what of siblings?"

"It was you and I when I left," she said. "Dnaestre wanted a son, and he was willing to fight Anaxilea until he had one. Afterward, he left her alone."

"For the best," Galahad said. "At least I know no sibling of mine is still under Roman rule."

"We are free," Lykopis said, and for the first time since she had first followed the Romans across the Crimea, she truly felt it.

**-RP: Chasing Ghosts-**

Lancelot was a bastard.

That was all that she could surmise from the last hour. They'd spent the better part of an hour arguing with the ship's captain only to be told without question that yes, Lancelot du Lac had come through. Yes, he'd mentioned that there would be a knight following him. Yes, he'd told them to pass on his regards. And yes, he had gotten on a vessel two days ago.

"Why would he leave?" Galahad asked, pacing angrily along the dock. "Arthur told him that we would follow. He asked that I see him safely to Sarmatia. How am I to do that if he doesn't listen?"

"Has Lancelot ever listened?" Lykopis asked, annoyed. While she hadn't expected Lancelot to rabbit, she'd not doubted it the moment that the captain had told them the news.

"To Arthur, yes!"

"There are some things that people have to do on their own, Galahad, no matter their orders," Lykopis said. Of course Lancelot had run. She still didn't know what had transpired between Lancelot and Arthur on the road, but as the First Knight had not come back with Arthur, she assumed that it had not gone well.

"The road is safer together," Galahad said finally, calming down.

"You're not afraid," Lykopis said.

"Of course I'm not afraid."

"Then quit acting like a child," she said. "There's a trading vessel that leaves in an hour. We need to see if they have room for passengers with coin."

"Why not wait for-"

"Do you want to get home, or do you want to sit here for a week?"

"I'll talk to the captain," Galahad said and left Lykopis standing with the horses. It was going to be a long journey.

-RP: Chasing Ghosts-

The Crimea itself had not changed. There were the same grasses and rolling hills. The same Black Sea, senting waves crashing and churning up onto the rocks. The same long march. They'd passed the village once, in the middle of the night, and it was only a sinking feeling in Lykopis's stomach when they reached the next that they'd gone too far that they returned that day.

Galahad was...vibrating? Lykopis eyed him critically out of the corner of her eye as they crested the last hill that stood between them and the village. The grasses were still the same pale green, whistling in the wind off of the Black Sea. She could still make out the same old meeting hall, standing half a building taller than the rest. There were some new grass huts along the edges, and there was a large field planted with something Lykopis could not recognize. It was still the same though, and she could not help but point out the house that had once housed them.

"That one," she said easily, pointing to a grass thatched hut that had once stood nearly one hundred yards away from the rest. Over the years, more huts had cropped up between, and it was simply a few odd paces away from the rest.

"That one," he asked, staring at it as though it was going to explode from the ground.

"Yes," she confirmed. "Though they might not live there anymore, if they live at all." Galahad had drawn his horse to a full stop, just staring out at the village. A fishing boat was out on the water, and several men sat on the dock, poles cast out into the surf. A group of women were washing clothes a short way down in a small steam that fed into the sea.

"This is where we were born," he said, leaning forward in the saddle as if whatever had held him up for fifteen years was suddenly gone.

"It is," she said. "It isn't as grand as the outpost."

"It's perfect," he countered and just sat there, watching as men and women moved throughout the village. A group of children played chase out in the field between them and the first row of houses. They'd not been seen yet, but Lykopis could just make out a small hand pointing their way. Like smoke, the kids were gone, their game abandoned as they raced back toward the village. "Let's go."

He urged his mare forward, and Lykopis let Aithon follow, his ears held forward and head up, curious about the village beyond. The village had gone silent as they neared, and it put Lykopis on edge as they rode. Even the fishing vessel had stalled in the water. No nets were cast. No traps were brought in. "Galahad-"

"Romans!" a woman's voice shouted from within one of the huts.

"Greetings!" Galahad called out, a smile on his face and that hopeful look in his eyes that he'd had since he was a child.

"Galahad, easy," Lykopis said. A man stepped out from a thatched hut, his face drawn down in a scowl.

"We've given you enough sons!" he shouted. "Boys you've never returned as men!" Lykopis pulled Aithon back, urging the creature to remain calm at the shouting. Galahad's mare was used to the noise of war, and she stood still, even as her master dropped her reigns and sat there, slack jawed.

"I'm not-"

"Get off that horse, boy, and we'll show Rome that the Sarmatians aren't the fodder you left us!" another shouted. Several more men came from the small huts, flanked by women. None of them held real weapons, but farming tools and machetes would gut a man as easily as a sword. Galahad's mare danced sideward, uncomfortable with the villagers as they came forward. She put distance between Galahad and the threat even without his command. Lykopis's own horse followed, though he knew not why the mare had danced backward.

"We aren't of-" Galahad tried again, but the crowd did not listen.

"Tell Rome that we will not be their breeders anylonger!"

"If you survive the ride back!"

"Send back a pair of heads!"

"Or nothing at all!"

The idea that they would not be welcomed back had never crossed the mind of the she-wolf. It had never been an option. Romans wore their red manes. They carried shields emblazoned with the crest of the republic. They-

She pulled her wolf hood up over her eyes and slipped from the saddle. Aithon stood his ground, big intelligent eyes flickering between Lykopis and the crowd. Claws tight against her knuckles, she stepped between her brother and the first man.

"Ly!" Galahad shouted, and in a moment, he was from his saddle, behind her, drawing his sword. "Rus!" he shouted as he came forward, placing himself at her back. Lykopis nearly ripped the throat from the first man as he came forward, carried by his momentum.

"Hault!" a female voice shouted, strong and firm and so very familiar that Lykopis nearly did not parry the blow that came next. The man did not stop in time, and she caught the blow off of an armguard before twisting and taking the short sickle that he had wielded from his grip. She lashed out with her foot, sending him to the ground and planted a heel at the back of his neck, keeping him down.

"That's the Roxolani cry," one of the men said, a shovel held hesitantly at his side.

"Romans don't use our war cries," another murmured.

"Move," that female voice shouted again, and like mist, they parted to either side and a dark haired woman came forward. She was older, wrinkled and speckled with grey, but she was as Lykopis remembered.

"It is the warcry of my brothers!" Galahad spat, his blade still tight in hand and ready. He'd made a mistake once that day already. Arthur's training would not allow him to make it again so soon. "Family that I have chosen, which is more than I can say for the family I returned to!"

"Easy, Gal," Lykopis urged, but her brother was a passionate man, and there was rage in his heart.

"Lykopis?" the woman asked, finally stepping forward.

"Anaxilea," Lykopis said, staring at the woman through the eyes of a wolf. Slowly she turned her head to her brother and released the man at her feet. She tossed the sickle back down beside him, and the man groaned as he stood. He was older than she'd thought from a distance, and with the rage from his face, he was winkled.

"My daughter," the woman said, voice soft and lost, barely caught on the sea of voices.

"Anaxilea, who are these people?" a woman asked, standing at her shoulder. Lykopis saw for the first time that most of the people in the crowd were women, young enough to still be of child bearing age. When she'd left, women had not held weapons. They'd hidden behind men in the way of the Scythians. Now, with Anaxilea in front of them, the entire tribe looked as if it was at war.

"Galahad?" Anaxilea asked, her dark eyes sliding to her son. He nodded, and in a moment, there was a sound ripped from the woman's throat that Lykopis had never heard her make. "Get Dnaestre," she said to a woman at her shoulder. "Get my husband. The rest of you, go back to your work! There are no Romans here."

Slowly the crowd dispursed, men and women going back to their tasks. Galahad sheathed his sword and retrieved his mare without another word. His lips were pressed into a firm line as he eased the horse. Aithon bumped Lykopis's shoulder as if seeking comfort, and she let the great best lean against her for a long moment. Her eyes did not leave her mother, who stood still several paces off, eyes locked onto the form of her son, a son that she had never really known.

"Damn you woman, I'll walk on my own, or I won't walk at all!" a man's voice echoed from one of the huts, firm and angry. It was older, but the voice belonged to their father, and Lykopis stepped behind Aithon almost as if on instinct. Galahad had brought his mare forward and stood in front of her, watching with a close eye as an old man was brought forward, a woman beneath his shoulder and supporting a leg that would not hold his weight.

"Why am I here, wife?" he asked, and it was easy to see that there was still no love between the pair. It was a comfort, given the foreign image of her mother amongst the people of their village.

"Dnaestre," Lykopis offered to Galahad. The young knight froze at that, one hand on his mare's neck as he seemed to gather his strength.

"My name is Galahad," he said at last, stepping forward toward the man. Just like the day that she had handed him the infant all those years ago, Lykopis saw her father become mortal. The man lunged forward, one hand wrapping around Galahad's neck and pulling him forward even as his weight transferred to his bad leg and they crumped to the ground. Dnaestre hugged his son shoulders shaking with relief or happiness or tears, Lykopis did not know which.

"My boy," he repeated over and over again. Galahad, for his part, remained silent, taking the attention as he had always imagined, with pride and pleasure and grace. Lykopis gripped the reigns of Galahad's horse and lead her off with Athon. Anaxilea stood off to one side, watching the reunion with tears running down her cheeks, washing away the salt that caked the skin there.

She tethered both horses to a post not far off and simply leaned there against it, watching as both men slowly pulled apart, smiles and laughter and the bluster that was men after they'd shown emotion. Galahad helped him to his feet, and waved off the woman that attempted to take the man's shoulder.

"You've returned to us, whole and healthy, and you've even brought home your lost sister," Dnaestre said, voice full of pride. "Tonight we'll banquet and you can tell the stories of your adventures!"

"Lykopis brought me home," Galahad said, a wide smile on his face.

"Where is such a woman?" Dnaestre asked. "I'd've known you'd have brought a wife with you."

"Lykopis isn't my wife," Galahad said, voice thick with shock.

"They call her Atanea here," Anaxilea said easily. "And they call me Anaxilea." Lykopis crossed the short space nervously, close enough to get between her mother and brother if there was a need. "Your mother welcomes you home, warrior." She held her arms out, and in a moment, she had embraced him and moved on, away from the three of them and toward the rest of the villagers, who had gathered a short way off.

"Atanea?" Galahad asked when he had recovered from his silent perusal of his mother.

"It is the name your people call me," she admitted. "Lykopis is-"

"The name of a beaten people," Dnaestre finished for her. "Atanea, your mother will need your help with arrangements."

"Fourteen years, and this is her homecoming?" Galahad asked, pulling away from his father to stare at the man.

"Galahad, don't-"

"She was sent to watch over me, to bring me back, and her welcome is cold?"

"Your sister shamed her family when she left," Dnaestre said. "Her thanks for leading you home is that it will be forgotten."

"I am content, pup," she said firmly. "I wish to speak with our mother."

Galahad looked at her a long moment then, confusion twisting his face into something that was nearly unrecognizable. He nodded then, once, and for a moment, she thought he was going to speak again before he clenched his jaw and he lead their father away.


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter Seventeen: An Honest Man**

Arthur had avoided his wife for as long as he dared. It had been three days since his return, and he had not seen her more than in passing with glances across a meeting table or in the halls. He'd not got to their bed. He'd found excuses to be elsewhere at meals. He'd even ridden out on a scouting mission when there was nothing else to occupy his time.

Even with Lancelot and Galahad gone, Arthur was out of duties.

He stood outside of his quarters, staring at the heavy wooden door, knowing that when he pulled that handle and it swung open, there would be declarations to speak, words to have and, if he was very lucky, peace to make. With once last great sigh, he pulled the door open.

Guinevere was seated at a small table in the corner that he had had brought in for her use. She'd a long roll of parchment in front of her and a crease in her brow so deep that he thought maybe the world could be swallowed into it. She did not look up at his entrance and instead, kept writing.

"Whatever it is, please leave it and be gone," she said in that tone that she always used with everyone. That authoritative tone that seemed to tolerate no argument.

"I'd hoped that what we had to discuss warranted a little more decorum," he said, startling her enough that the quill she held skittered along the page.

"Arthur!" she said, rising to her feet, face smoothing into a mask of delicate happiness. "I was just plotting my kidnapping of the king of this land."

"His men might pay quite a ransom to keep him working," Arthur countered, giving her a small smile. It was easy to forgive Guinevere any sin, almost as easy as it was to forgive Lancelot.

"Then I shall not offer ransom," Guinevere said, wrapping her arms about his neck. She had a way of speaking and looking at him that made him agree to anything she said. It was the way of some women, but Arthur had never been quite so susceptible to it in the past.

"He may not allow his own capture," Arthur said. The woman's smile faded quickly.

"Why would he not?"

"First he would ask if he was who you'd meant to ensnare," Arthur said, staring down at her with a blank expression.

"Then Gawain has failed to keep his silence," Guinevere said, drawing away and crossing back to her desk. She leaned back against it and faced him again, all traces of amusement gone.

"Lancelot has left to return to Sarmatia," Arthur said, watching her face closely. Rage flooded her.

"And this is your idea of a fair punishment?" she asked, pushing off of the desk and standing straight, arms crossed.

"This is what he chose," Arthur said. "I seek no punishment for him, nor from you." Her arms fell and a confused look crossed her face.

"When why-"

"I do not know," Arthur interrupted her. "But I have been through too much anguish and seen my knights dragged through hell far too often, to treat such things with the jealousy of a younger man."

"I did not mean to dishonor our union," Guinevere said softly, and for the first time since he'd met her, he felt that she'd meant what she'd said. "I did not mean to love him." Her eyes swam with tears, and Arthur held a hand out for her to take, which she did with shaking fingers. He drew her to his chest and laid a kiss at her brow.

"Neither did I," he said, running a hand up and down her spine. She accepted the comfort for a moment before pulling away and staring into his face.

"Neither did..." she trailed off as the reality of what he'd said dawned upon her. "Then why would he leave?"

"He has family elsewhere," Arthur said, resting his chin atop her head as she curled back up into him.

"I hate him," she whispered, and he could feel the warm wetness of her tears as they fell against his neck.

"No, you don't," Arthur countered, but he couldn't stop the flare of something cold and angry in his own chest. "He has a family; he may yet return. I've sent Galahad to travel with him."

"You think he'll wait?"

"Yes," Arthur said immediately, but the silence that stretched on after made him reconsider. Would he wait? Or would he run?

Lancelot was anything by a coward; Arthur knew that more readily than he knew his own heart was beating. Except Lancelot-God love the man-had a sacrificial nature as much as he hated the idea. He would do anything to keep from being named coward, but he would do more to protect those he cared about. Even now, miles away, Arthur thought that perhaps he was one of those people. Lancelot had an odd definition of protection, but if he felt that disappearing would make Arthur's life easier...

"No," Arthur amended himself a few long minutes later. His eyes stung, and he banished the feeling bubbling in his chest as swiftly as possible.

"Then you will not see him again," Guinevere murmured. "Unless you bring him back."

"He will not come back until he is ready, and at that time, and only at that time, will he be welcome here," Arthur said, drawing on what strength was in him as he said it. It would be so easy to give chase, track down his once first knight and bring him back. Except Lancelot du Lac was a free man. He had a life to return to, if he so chose, and Arthur would not stand in the way of that. "He will return."

"Well," Guinevere said, leaning away from him with a watery smile. She sniffed and wiped at her eyes. "I am not a patient woman, Arthur Castus. You'll have to distract me."

"A duty I take willingly," he replied.

He had avoided his wife for three days. They did not leave their quarters for another three.

**-RP: An Honest Man-**

Dagonet was sure that Gawain had lost his mind. The lion-knight had simply been pushed too far by Galahad's departure, and in his abscence, what little mind that he'd had, had dribbled out his nose. Or perhaps, he'd simply become suicidal in his boredom.

"Take care," Dagonet cautioned as they stood in the practice arena. It was little more than a pit that had been dug out and filled up with a coarse sand. On either side were a set of racks full of training weapons. "The Lark is used to this type of warfare."

"So am I," Gawain countered. "And I will not be comfortable with her in a battle until I have tested her myself."

"You aren't doing this to calm your nerves, you're doing it because you're bored," Dag urged.

"And what if I am?" Gawain asked. "We have all sparred in the arena time and time again over the years." He glanced across the arena where Lark had chosen a small blunted blade, almost one forth the length of a sword, and a small round shield. Gawain smiled as he lifted the pair of blunted axes and slung a shield across his back.

He stepped into the arena, a smile on his face.

Lark met him in the middle, and Gawain swung the small blunted axe at her shield, just to see how she'd react. In an odd feignting maneuver, the woman folded sideways, into his arm, taking the weight of his blow easily and rolling along his outstretched arm to plant her elbow into his stomach, knocking the wind from him. Another quick twist of her body, and she was under his other arm, which he'd raised for a second blow, and at his back, pressing the blunted blade between his shoulders.

"You die," she said simply before taking a few steps back and allowing him to regain his wind. He turned toward her, the thought of her competence settled in his mind.

"I would not approach it the same way again," he agreed, and she gestured him forward with her small shield. He shook his head, smiling at her, and gestured her forward. She came willingly, taking the few steps between them quickly and with a violent intent as she dropped a shoulder and slammed into his stomach, even as his blunted axe came down on her shoulder. Her momentum carried them both to the earth, and even before the dust settled, her short blade was pressed against his neck.

"You die," she said, standing without thought and leaving him in the sand.

"That blow would have removed your arm," he protested as he sat upright.

"Then it is a blessing that you struck my shield arm, not the one with the blade," she said, tapping at her hip with the blunted dagger.

"We fight to avoid injuries, not simply to win," Gawain chided as he stood.

"Then you have never known a fight where the only option is life or death," she said, pushing the dark tangled mess of her hair back over a shoulder.

"I've known many fights were life or death were the only options," he countered. "All of us-"

"You have never known such a fight," she cut him off. "There was always the option of your comrades there, at your back. There was always the option that someone would come to you, should you require their help. There was the option that you could wound your opponent badly enough that they would retreat." She shook her head. "In the arena, in my battle ground, there is only you."

"This isn't your arena," Gawain said, though he was no longer annoyed. Saddened? Perhaps, but the lion-knight could no longer be angry with the loss. "You will have to learn to fight as part of a unit."

"Relying on someone to defend you gets you killed," she countered. "You want me to defend your commander? Fine. There were games in the arena where there were such rules. I will not wait for someone else to kill my enemy while he barrels down on my head."

"Then you will be wounded," Gawain said simply. Even from a few feet away, he could see the bruising starting along her shoulder. Tomorrow, it would be blackened. It was a small wonder she still held the wooden shield.

"Then it will not be the first time," she said, gesturing him forward again.

He went then, giving a great, jumping feignt with his leading axe and twisting as she brought up the shield and brought the smaller axe across and slashed at her ribs.

"You die," he said as he landed, but even as he collided with her and the pair fell to the ground, he felt the cool of the dagger against his chest, just beneath his rib cage.

"As do you," she said, wincing as he pushed his weight off of her. "Is this enough?" she asked as she sat upright.

"Are you done?" he asked.

"Once more," she said, standing easily. "Once more, and you will not stand from this."

"I rather like standing," Gawain countered.

"Then we're done," Lark said, turning her back to him and leaving the arena, hanging the practice equipment back where she'd found it.

Gawain chuckled under his breath and returned his own supplies to the rack. Dagonet was standing on, frown firmly in place as though some god had painted it there and refused to let it leave.

"Ah, have a moment to relax, Dag," Gawain said easily, tagging the man on the shoulder with his palm.

"Had that been a real battle, you'd have died there," Dagonet said firmly, eyes not leaving the Lark as she finished returning the blunted weapon and shield.

"Aye," Gawain said with a smile. "A happy death it would have been too, that little thing beneath me as I bled into the sand."

"Take care," Dag said. "That is not your beautiful Sarmatian woman."

"Oh, she's beautiful enough," Gawain offered as he rubbed at his chest. He'd have a bruise there, where her elbow had found purchase on their first bought. "Though from what Bors recalls of our people, I'm not sure she's Sarmatian."

"She's Sarmatian enough," Dag said. "He war cry is our own."

"And when have you heard her war cry?" Gawain asked, curious.

"In the arena," Lark's sharp voice startled him, and Gawain nearly jumped to hear her so close. "Was it the battle with the lion?" she asked, arching an eyebrow at the giant.

"Yes," Dagonet said simply, and there was an odd moment between them were Gawain felt as though he was intruding.

"The war hammer is your weapon," Lark said, daring the man to counter what she'd said. "Could you have beaten him?"

"Not with the hammer," Dagonet said honestly. "But I'd have done it another way."

"Another way than I did," Lark said. "That is what you mean. Say what you mean, giant, for surely, our lives are short enough to not spend moments on lies." She gave him a smirk that Gawain had a hard time identifying. Finally, he decided on pained, because surely, no one well made the onlooker feel quite as terrible as he did in that moment.

"F'ya'll done, 'Nora's gotta 'nouncement," Bors interrupted as he called down from the parapet of the wall. They were just beyond it, but his voice carried easily enough. Gawain watched as Dagonet waved a hand up at him in acknowledgement.

"Surely not another child," Gawain murmured, eyes sliding to Dagonet. The big man had a way of knowing that Vanora was pregnant often times before the red-headed woman her self did. Everyone had always considered it a healer's knowledge, but Gawain had long since attributed it to the quiet man's sense of the world around him.

"The youngest is only eight months now," Dagonet said. "Though it wouldn't be the shortest distance between them."

"How many bastards does your man have?" Lark asked as she followed them up the path.

"Eleven," Gawain said with a chuckle.

"Eleven," Lark said as if the idea of eleven children was somehow impossible.

"Nearly one a year since we arrived at the wall," Dagonet confirmed.

"Someone should tell him what causes the problem," Lark said darkly.

"Oh, he knows," Gawain countered, tagging Dagonet on the shoulder. "I'll get Tristram."

"If you know where he hides," Dag said easily, "share with the rest of us. It's been hell this last week."

"Tristram only ever goes one place," Gawain said as he walked toward the stables. He waved over his head with one hand. In all their years, Tristram had only gone one of two places when he was like this. The first was out, scouting, but with the woads so close, the knight felt as out of place as the rest of them. So, the scout would be in the stable rafters, amongst straw and hay, staring at one rafter in particular as though it held the weight of everything he'd ever known.

The stable was empty to the untrained eye, but the horses eyes shifted occasionally upward, and so Gawain sat heavily on a stool and rested his head against a stall door.

"What a pair we make," he called up to the rafters. He received no response. "My best friend is gone, escaped from where I can watch over him. Yours has come back to you, and yet you'd rather stare at a rafter all day than speak with him."

Gawain did not jump as a dagger embedded itself into the stall door merely the width of two fingers from his head. Not long after, Tristram's torso swung into view before he dropped to the ground.

"What do you know?" Tristram asked, voice darker than usual.

"That Lykopis would call you a coward," Gawain said firmly, staring at the sullen knight for a long moment. "Come to the tavern. Hear Vanora's news with us, and then make peace with your tribesman."

"How do you know he is my tribesman?"

"You don't think Lykopis left without giving me strict instruction on parenting you two?" Gawain asked, a shadow of a smirk on his lips. Lykopis had been very firm that morning before they'd left. She'd made demands and had taken them just as easily, swearing to see her brother safely to their homeland in exchange for Gawain's eye on Tristram and the pup he'd drug back from the mainland.

"I need no parent," Tristram said, dislodging his dagger with little grace.

"Oy, we're all in need of parenting. H've you seen our manners?" Gawain asked with a laugh. He extended out one hand, which Tristram took firmly before hauling him to his feet.

"What news could Vanora have that she'd call for us all and not just wait for the dinner meal?" Tristram asked as they left the stable.

"A baby, my guess," Gawain offered. The pair of them shared a quiet look.

"Bors is building his own army," Tristram said finally. "May the gods save us all from when they have grown."

"Give it a few years after the wolf returns, and the pair of you'll have your own army started," Gawain said, elbowing the scout easily in his ribs. Tristram took the blow with a good natured huff and a quick back handed blow to Gawain's stomach.

"The wolf raised the lot of us, what makes you think she'd want her own litter?" Tris asked easily. Gawain could not hide the smile that crossed his face at that. He did not respond as they neared the tavern, and instead let the question die. Let Tristram think on that. Let him debate in his mind why Gawain did not respond. Then, after a moment, let him realize that while he had objected to Lykopis being a mother, he'd not objected to planting the litter.

Vanora had cleared the tavern of all the normal guests that milled in and out around this time of day. Bors was sitting haphazardly at the door, glaring out at those that he deemed not good enough to enter. He nodded to Tris and Gawain as they passed, a smile on his face.

The woman herself was settled at a table with her hoard, all of them sitting around, fighting and bickering among themselves. Vanora was playing with the small hair atop her youngest's head and smiling as though the sun was shining out through her eyes. Gawain had seen the woman pregnant many times, but this was different. There was none of the chagrined smiling toward her lover or the hesitant way she seemed to hold herself.

"Bout time!" she shouted at them. Gawain smiled at the woman and took his seat silently. It was best, when Vanora had an announcement, to simply sit, wait for the repercussions, and smile.

"Get on with it, love," Bors said as he came in, pulling the door shut behind them. It was just Gawain, Tristram, Bors, Dagonet, Arthur-who looked slightly rumpled and a matching set with his wife-, and Lark. Lark looked around uncomfortably, but she'd been sat next to Dagonet, and the big man would not have brought her here if he didn't find it appropriate.

"I've decided, in my infinite generosity and pleasant demeanor-"

"In your cold-heart and violent intentions," Tristram muttered under his breath, and Gawain chuckled soundlessly as Vanora pressed on.

"To make an honest man out of this buffoon," she said, throwing an arm around Bors's waist. The big man gave them all a sly smile. It took longer for the news to sink into Gawain's mind that it did Dagonet's, because in a moment, the giant of a man had roared out a happy noise and crossed the expanse between them, lifting Van easily over one shoulder and spinning her about. He set her down amidst laughter as he tried the same with Bors, who simply swatted at him as Dag lifted him from the ground by his middle.

"Pu'me down, ya ox," Bors commanded, but he did nothing more but swat at the man.

"Congratulations," Dag said, settling Bors down by his wife with an affectionate kiss to her cheek.

"S'bound to happen," Bors proclaimed, sweeping the woman into an embrace that made the children groan. "Can't resist me for long, flower."

"I'm just doin' it to get you to name the bastards," Vanora said with a glare at her lover-fiance-that would have sent the more strong of heart running.

"Congratulations to both of you," Arthur interrupted, standing as he pushed Guinevere from his lap. "I should expect preparations for the wedding to begin soon?"

"Soon enough," Vanora said with a nod.

"And I shall assist you," Guinevere offered, coming forward to clasp the woman's hands with a smile. Gawain winced at that. He'd been in the tavern late enough at night to hear exactly what Vanora had thought of the woad Queen, and not much of it was friendly. Vanora hesitated, and Gawain was shocked when she didn't rip her hands from Guinevere's.

"A greatly appreciated help," she finally said, giving Guin's hands a shake. The woad Queen blossomed at the answer, and for a moment, Gawain thought that perhaps she would do well at Hadrian's Wall despite everything.

**-RP: An Honest Man-**

Galahad sat on a small bundle of furs beside a large bonfire. He'd tried to tell the woman that had led him here that he'd not needed the furs, but she had insisted, settling him on a thick stack of them and draping a large woven blanket across his shoulders with a lingering hand on his shoulder.

Several people had turned up, and if Galahad were honest, he was uncomfortable with the pairs of eyes that sparked in the fire, as if waiting for him to do or say something. He did his best to smile and nod at them when he made eye contact. A stew was placed in his hands, and he started. Lykopis stared down at him, eyes glinting in the firelight. She was the image of their mother, he noted then, in the darkness and the red flickering light. Said woman was a few paces off, seated on the ground, staring at him as though she was reading each of his movements.

"Easy," Lykopis murmured, dropping down beside him to sit on the ground. He inched toward her slightly without realizing. "There is nothing you could do here to ruin or improve her opinion of you."

"It's not her opinion that-"

"Yes, it is," Lykopis said firmly. "Because there's nothing you could do here to ruin your father's opinion of you, and you're not the kind to care what anyone else thinks."

"These are my people now, of course I care," he chided, bumping her knee with the back of his hand. "As should you." He sniffed at the stew before taking a bite. It was a bland thing, fish based with a few floating pieces of an unidentified vegetable. Dagonet's rabbit stews were far more appealing, but, he supposed, they lived by the sea.

"I didn't care when I was a child," Lykopis countered. "Why would I care now? These people did not want an oir-pata amongst them then; they'll not want one now."

"Or-pata?" Galahad asked, voice louder than he'd thought. Anaxilea's eyes narrowed at him as she rose, stalking toward them.

"Oir-pata," Anaxilea said, settling in front of him in a crouch that should have made her old bones ache. "My people."

"The amazons?" Galahad asked, attempting to show an interest. Lykopis hissed something at him but he pressed on. "I'd like to hear their stories. It is good to know your mother's people as well as your father's."

It was the wrong thing to say.

Later, he would realize why, but at that moment, sitting aside the fire with his mother's dark eyes glaring at him, he had no idea why she stood without a word and left the fireside.

"You..." Lykopis cut herself off as she stared at the flames. "You are an honest man, Galahad. Everything you do and say and feel is honest."

"That is not an insult," he said, feeling the need to defend himself from the edge in her voice.

"Yes," she murmured. "It is."

"How-"

"Honesty gets you killed," her dark eyes snapped to him for a moment before drawing to the side, where Dnaestre was being helped to the fire. "These people, pup, have not had the luxury of an honest Roman commander to rear them or the warmth of a brother at their back. They have had lies and spit venom and the promise that someday their sons would return to them."

"And they have," Galahad said firmly.

"One son, brother, one in how many?" she said with a shake of her head. He thought she'd said something else, but it was lost in his father's shout for attention. She slipped from the fireside as their mother had, and again, he felt the chill of the night despite the warmth of the fire.

"My son!" Dnaestre said, hobbling the few steps toward him and extending a hand. Galahad took it and rose, easily to his feet. "Come, son, tell us of your travels!" Galahad froze a moment, standing there, with at least twenty sets of eyes staring at him.

"Well, I don't know where to start," he said.

"The beginning brother," Lykopis's voice called from somewhere in the shadows, just on the edge of the firelight. There was a quiet laughter there, and the tone that she would normally use when calling him "pup".

"Yes!" Dnaestre said, settling him back down on his furs and collapsing to his side beside them. "Tell us of Rome and your comrades there." Galahad flinched at that. A Sarmatian knight rarely found themselves in Rome, surely they didn't...

"I was not stationed in Rome," he said, at first hesitant. "Myself and thirty others were sent to an island called Briton and stationed there for the fifteen years."

"What danger could Rome have on an island?" one of the men asked. He was not far off of Galahad's age, and for a moment, he wondered how there were even men there, with Rome always on the horizon.

"What could a man who had hidden from his duty know of danger?" Galahad bit back.

"I'm not Sarmatian, boy," the man countered, a wicked smile on his face. "I'm Persian. Your women needed men about, my people were happy to oblige." Something burned in Galahad at that.

"Saxons," he said instead of rising to the challenge presented. "And woads and Greeks and the Irish," he went on. "An island that is hell and heaven together."

He found himself speaking of Gawain and Arthur, Lancelot and Bors, Dagonet and Tristram, Kay and Percival. He found himself telling of the time that Percival had fallen in battle, when Gawain had mourned the loss of Kay for months. He told of the fire haired Vanora and her small army of children. Of life at the Wall and on the road. Of those brothers he lost, and of others he found.

Dnaestre listened intently, asking questions and laughing when Galahad told a joke or story.

"It is a miracle you survived," Dnaestre said at last. Several had come and gone during the long hours, but some had stayed. At some time, Anaxilea had returned and settled some distance away, listening intently.

"Bors used to say that wolves ghosted our steps and ripped out our enemies throats before they could reach us," his eyes found Lykopis in the shadows, and gave her a hesitant nod. She dropped her head slightly before drawing the wolf hood up over her eyes.

"I would like to meet these men," Dnaestre said loudly. "What tribes can we find them in?"

"They are still in Briton," Galahad said, tensing at the dark look that colored Dnaestre's face at that.

"Why stay on Roman land?"

"It doesn't belong to Rome any longer," Galahad countered. "It belongs to Arthur, and Arthur is a man that we were proud to follow."

"To serve," Dnaestre spat.

"And to be served," Galahad countered. "Arthur has taken blows for me, just as I would for him."

"Because he needed his slave alive."

"Because as damned of a nation the Romans are," Anaxilea said, rising to her feet and addressing the crowd. "As damned as they are, they have heroes."

Everyone fell silent.

"Heroes are worth following," she continued, voice startlingly clear. Lykopis shadowed around the edge of the firelight to stand at Galahad's back. He did not know why she moved, but he'd found that she rarely did something without reason.

"We've had this discussion, woman!" one of the Persians shouted. "We'll not fight your wars."

"This is your land now. These are your people. There is a man sitting there with no ties to this village than his father and yet here he sits, more courage in his heart than the rest of you!" Galahad stood uneasily at that, taking a half step backward to stand at Lykopis's side.

"There have been small raiding parties coming through," Lykopis said quietly. "Stealing women in the night. The Persians will do nothing to stop them, as long as the Romans leave their wives untouched."

"This is their solution? Making deals with slavers?" he asked, eyeing the men and women around the fire. Some sat unfettered, completely unaffected by the turn of conversation, as if it was an old argument that brooked no interest. Others withdrew into themselves, too beaten or frightened to make a noise.

"Yes," Lykopis said easily.

"When did you hear of this?" he asked.

"This afternoon, when I spoke with Anaxilea. Several of the women have taken to sleeping in her hut.

"In her hut?"

"It is the furthest from the village, and the rogue's have become of the mind that a demon lives there."

"Demon?" Galahad asked, trying to split his attention toward the argument that was ongoing.

"Anaxilea can be frightening," Lykopis murmured. "But they will not return after the next. They will find a wolf among the sheep."

"Two wolves," Galahad said firmly, laying a hand on her shoulder. He gave her a half smile before stepping forward to interrupt the argument.

Lykopis stared after him with a sigh and a shake of her head. An honest man, was her brother, but an honest man never thought to stab his enemies in the back. A man that never thought on subterfuge never expected it.

**AN: It caused me physical pain to write this chapter. Legitimately, I glared at everything that involved Guinevere and briefly wondered why I didn't kill her off during the Saxon battle. It would have been remarkably easy. But, then I'd have been a pitiable, self-indulgent creature and we'd have no real story at this point, so Guinevere-God love her because I sorely don't-must be written about.**


	18. Chapter 18

**AN: Mostly a fluff chapter, this. A bit of meat in there, but for the most part, just an in between where things are turning. I enjoyed writing it, especially the bit at the end, but, you'll see! Carry on!**

**Chapter Eighteen: Home **

"What was that?" Galahad shouted as he walked along in the grass, Lykopis's arm draped across his shoulder and supporting her left leg.

"That was me keeping you from meeting with an arrow," she groused back, wincing as she put more weight on the injured thigh than she was comfortable with.

"I'm a grown man; I don't need you fighting my battles-"

"Because I could have hauled your limping body from out in the field," Lykopis countered, glaring up at him.

"At least I'd have kept my pride," he chided, jostling her a little too firmly. She hissed out a breath and ripped her arm away before settling herself to the grass. Galahad had made a make shift dressing, leaving the arrow in place in her thigh. They'd disagreed over the field triage, but Lykopis had caved to his insistence. It was no use fighting with a pup.

Now, annoyed and hurting, she gripped the shaft and broke it off close to the skin.

"You know that is going to be difficult to remove now," he said, glaring down at her.

"Dagger," she insisted, holding a hand out. He provided it, wincing as she slipped it into the wound alongside the arrowhead and used it to ease the black metal out, coated in her blood. Using the same dagger, she shredded the tunic that he had removed and used as a dressing the first time. He protested mildly before those dark eyes glared up at him without the barrier of the wolf's hood to buffer it.

Wrapped and treated as far as it was going to get without a needle and thread, Galahad pulled her roughly to her feet and they resumed the walk toward the village.

It had been a long night. Longer than either cared to admit. They did not fight well together, and more often than not, Galahad found himself swinging his blade over the ducking head of the wolf. In the end, there had only been seven men, and all seven men had died bloody.

A long night, but a successful night. One they would hopefully not have to repeat.

The hut was only a few paces off, and Lykopis drew away from him as they neared, taking her own weight stubbornly with each step. Inside, he could make out the flicker of a fire.

"Mother's waited up," he said with a huff.

"She's not slept but a few hours since we've arrived," Lykopis growled, flinching with each step.

"Must you be stubborn?" he asked, glaring at her through the dark.

"Yes," Lykopis muttered, pushing aside the door covering and stepping into the firelight.

Galahad shook his head and followed her into the hut. By the time his eyes adjusted, she was already seated to one side of the fire, unwrapping her thigh and taking a bird bone needle that one of the women offered with hesitant eyes.

"They are all dead," Galahad announced as his mother's eyes skewered him.

"All?" Anaxilea asked, an edge to her voice that made the knight uncomfortable.

"Yes, you've nothing to-"

A heavy pot clanged to the ground, spilling the contents into the dirt.

"Fool!" she shouted, crossing the distance between them easily with several long steps. In a breath, Lykopis was between them, leg dripping blood into the dirt hand clutching her claws as if she meant to use them.

"Step aside!" Anaxilea said, teeth grinding as she stared down at her daughter. Instead, Lykopis reached back with one hand and pulled the hood up over her eyes. Quickly, she swiped a palm against her bloody thigh and brought it up in front of her mother's face.

"Blood," Anaxilea said, settling back half a step and deflating.

"It has brought me nothing but grief, but what has been sworn has been sworn," Lykopis growled.

"Damn Tereis," Anaxilea said darkly.

"Damn yourself, mother," Lykopis growled. "Because you could have made anything of a child, and instead, you let Tereis make a wolf."

"A wolf to kill Scythians!" Anaxilea shouted, sending several of the women that had gathered in the hut scurrying for the door.

"A wolf is a wild thing," Galahad said, startling the pair of them. "It does what it feels is right."

"It should do what it's owner commands," Anaxilea said to him, face a firm impassive wall. "Just as you should have done, when you left here this evening. We need one alive, Galahad, or we will never get back those that were stolen."

"I'd prefer not to die trying to take your hostage," Galahad countered, anger rising in him.

"Easy," Lykopis murmured over her shoulder. Her claws had fallen away from her knuckles. "Why do you care so much?" she asked her mother then, staring at her through the wolf's eyes.

"Because my sisters have been taken," Anaxilea said, staring off into the hut. She backed down in a way that Lykopis did not recall her mother ever doing. "A year after you left, three of my sisters were brought here as children. Young girls, none older than six, and I have protected them until they were taken one week ago."

"You would risk the life of your children for your imagined sisters?" Galahad asked, voice colored with annoyance.

"I would risk anything for the lives of my sisters," Anaxilea murmured, settling herself to a pile of furs. She was that salt speckled woman again, standing alone on a wind swept hill, too weak to allow one child to live and too proud to love the other.

"You told me once," Lykopis said quietly, staring at the flickering fire. "That in fifteen years, people would sing songs about what I had done. I was never so naive as to believe that, but I had expected...You told me to remind him of who he was. You've forgotten far more than anyone else."

"I have done what was needed," Anaxilea countered. "I was given the gift of three of the last of my people. I can no stay here in hiding. I cannot abandon my people as my mother abandoned them."

"You've already done it," Galahad's voice was firm and unyielding. "You've abandoned your daughter and your son, and for the life of me, I can't recall why I'd wanted to return here." He spun then, leaving the pair of them alone in the hut.

"He has become his father's son," Anaxilea said darkly.

"He has," Lykopis agreed, crossing to her side of the fire and easing down beside her mother. "He has become Arthur's goodness, and Gawain's courage. He is Bors's brashness and Lancelot's quick wit. He is even Tristram's fierce protectiveness and some of Dagonet's self sacrificing nature."

"You know these men well," Anaxilea murmured.

"I have watched them grow up," Lykopis admitted.

"You have made them family," Anaxilea said, turning to stare at her daughter. "Tell me, girl, did you even miss this village?"

"No," Lykopis said easily. "I never missed this village or this land or you."

"Then you have grown into your mother," Anaxilea murmured.

"No," Lykopis said, staring into the fire. "Because I do miss Briton. I miss the woods and watching the wall. I miss hearing Bors's laughter overshadow everything else. I miss watching Dagonet watch everyone else. I miss Galahad and Gawain playing at some game or another. I even miss watching Lancelot flirt with bar wenches." She shook her head at that. "I never thought I'd miss Lancelot of all people."

"You've fallen in love with these men," Anaxilea said darkly, glaring at her daughter.

"No," Lykopis said. "I love them, as Galahad loves them. Maybe because Galahad loves them, I don't know, but the knights were his brothers, they defended each other, and I loved them for it."

"I have never loved a man," Anaxilea said, the little lines around her eyes and mouth deepening.

"Even you would love these men," Lykopis murmured. "Perhaps you would like to."

"No," Anaxilea said. "I don't think I would." She deflated at that, easing herself back against the slump of furs at her back.

"Because it would make you weak," Lykopis said.

"Because it might change me," Anaxilea countered, staring at the flame again. "And I am far too old to change."

The pair sat there for a long while, both wondering at the ways of people that they could not understand.

**-RP: Home-**

Lancelot had been riding in circles. He knew it. It was impossible not to know, given that he'd just been ringing a lake for the better part of a week.

What else was there to do really? He'd found his village. He'd spent a few hours just watching it from atop a wind swept rise. He'd even considered riding up to it. Except...well...

His father had been an old man when he'd had him, and his sister had been a small miracle, given that their father was sickly. Now, he'd be long dead, and his sister might have followed him. It had been many a year even before the Romans came since he'd had a mother. No other family to speak of, and here he was, riding for days on end just searching for something he surely might not have.

Life was hard out on the steppes. Lancelot remembered as much. Young died regularly from disease or accident or starvation. His family had been lucky. The lake provided a constant source of food, but they had little protection from the illnesses that plagued his people. Fishing accidents were common and children drowning even more so.

Alda could be long dead, and then what would he be? A man without a home.

He sighed as the village came back into view. He'd been riding out around it, giving it a wide berth before returning to ride along the lake. He'd done it so many times that his horse was already starting to move outward, away from the shoreline. He shook his head and smiled up at the sky. Lancelot du Lac could be a coward, but Lancelot of Hadrian's Wall, he could not. Adjusting his horse's lead, he pushed him onward, toward the village.

No one met him on the road in, and no one stopped him as he tethered his horse to a tall post in the middle of town. People came and went, talking and laughing and swearing as they walked to and from their homes. They were a simple people, with simple clothing and simple minded tasks, but they were his people, he supposed.

"Excuse me," he said, snagging the arm of one of the passing women. She had light hair, pale eyes and even paler skin. Had he been at the Wall, he might have said something cunning and dropped his chin as he smiled at her. As it was, he was at his village, and the last thing he needed was a farmer's daughter running home to papa.

"Yes?" she asked, brushing the hair out of her eyes. "You're a new face."

"Rather an old face that has been gone for some time," he said, a smile on his lips. "I am searching for a man that might be long dead and a young woman by the name of Alda."

"Alda's a friend of mine," the woman said, her face lighting in a smile. "It'd be her father then, you're looking for? He passed three years back, but Alda still lives in their old home. I could show you if-"

"No," Lancelot said, giving her hand a small pat. "I remember it." He turned from her, dismissing her as he untied his horse.

"Sir!" the woman called after him. He turned toward her, smiling at the exasperated frown on her lips. "It's customary to trade names here. I don't know for how long you've been gone but-"

"Fifteen years, give or take," Lancelot said, a smile in place. Her face fell at that, and she stared at him, hard and unyielding.

"Then you're Lancelot," she said, one hand at her chin.

"Aye," he said. The woman erupted at that, tears welling in her eyes as she crossed the short distance between them.

"Then I'll not let you find your way on your own, if only to see Alda's face," she said, taking his hand firmly with hers and tugging him along.

"You don't have to accompany me," he said, but he barely had time to undo the last of the reigns from the post before he was pulled along. His charger gave a disgruntled snort at being tugged so quickly, but he followed just as Lancelot followed, without further complaint.

"What sort of best friend would I be if I didn't deliver a brother back from the dead?" she asked, turning toward him and sending him a smile that shined like the sun.

"A friend, perhaps, with a name?" he asked easily.

"Kati," she said with a smile.

"Kati and Alda, sisters in arms," Lancelot said, fighting the urge to smile at her.

"Since we were small," the woman said, waving at people as they went. "I remember you, you know."

"Oh?"

"You were a serious child," she said, turning toward him and walking backward. "Stern faced like this." She screwed her face up into a frown.

"A grave mark against my character," he said, not fighting the smile that came.

"Most grave," she agreed, and turned back around as they neared a familiar hut. It had changed little over the years, and he would have found it even blind.

"Alda will be beside herself," Kati said, pulling him along to the door. "Wait here, I'll send her out for you." She ducked under the door covering and Lancelot could hear her calling to his sister beyond the door.

"Kati, I've work to do. You know the roof's been leaking for days," he could not hear the small, childlike voice that he remembered, and instead, a firm woman's voice had replaced it.

"Alda, it will wait. I want you to meet a friend of mine who has returned," Kati urged, and there was something said lowly that he could not hear through the covering. Kati tore into a fit of giggles and soon, she came through the door, dragging behind her a dark haired woman with dark eyes and fair skin. A near replica of himself, he was sure, save for the hair that fell nearly to her hips and the softness of her jaw.

"Alda," he said, voice catching on the name. The woman stood firm and tall in front of him, sizing him up in a moment.

"He's pretty enough, Kati, but Dak was more powerfully built. I'll not give a friend's consent to him," she said, turning toward Kati, who was red faced and trying to keep from laughing. "What?"

"Whoever this Dak is must truly be a rare specimen for your to throw over your own brother in favor of him," Lancelot said, a smile on his lips.

"My own-" she cut herself off, studying him again, careful this time of his face. "Gods, you look just like mother." And then she was curled against his chest and sobbing out slurs and curses for all to hear.

"Lot?" she asked, bastardizing his name in the way that she'd had as a child when she was particularly miserable.

"No one calls me that anymore, Alda," he said easily, holding her out at arm's length. "Though, the only one who ever did was you."

"It's been so long. We thought you were long dead."

"Rome extended her service the day that we were to be free, and then I extended my own for a few months."

"Why? Why would you...Gods, Lancelot, we thought you dead as well," she struck him, hard, on the shoulder and scrubbed at her tear stained cheeks.

"So Kati mentioned," he said, indicating the girl with a nod of his head. "Though you should have known that I always keep my promises."

"So you do," Alda murmured before turning from him to face the rest of the village. She eyed his horse for a moment. "Is he yours?"

"Aye," he said, a smile on his lips. "Come, little girl, I'll put you up on the pony."

"I'm no little girl," she chided, but let him draw her toward his charger.

"And that is no pony," he agreed, hoisting her up by the waist and settling her into the saddle. She swung her leg over and made herself at ease in the saddle. The horse danced beneath her feet, unaccustomed to being ridden by any but Lancelot. He shushed it and pulled the reins around so they walked back through the village.

"Find us later, Kati!" Alda shouted over her shoulder. "Maybe by then I'll have rethought my assessment!" Even Lancelot could hear the laughter in her voice, and he could not help but smile despite the ever present ache in his chest.

**-RP: Home-**

Vanora sighed as Guinevere held up another strap of cloth, testing the color against her skin. Honestly, the woman had held up nearly thirty scraps, all the same muddy white, and yet each time she'd scrunched her nose, declared it not her color, and held up another.

It was, in a word, maddening.

"My Queen, I had intended to wear what I'm wearing now," she said, gesturing down at her day dress. Guinevere's dark eyes snapped up to her with serious intent.

"You can't be serious!" Guinevere said firmly, and went back to her perusal of bits of fabric. "This one, perhaps?" she asked, and Vanora simply looked down at yet another piece of dirtied white cloth.

"It'll do," Vanora said, praying the woman simply took her word.

"Lark?" Guin called over her shoulder. Vanora glanced at the woman that Guinevere had drug in that morning. The woman had looked feral then, glaring at the hand that captured her wrist as though she was debating gnawing through one arm or another. She'd been more agreeable at first, simply leaning against the wall and glaring. Nearly an hour ago, she'd collapsed in a heap on the ground, crossed one leg over the other, and feigned sleep.

"It's a tan color?" Lark asked, without looking.

"Yes," Vanora confirmed.

"It's white!" Guinevere said firmly.

"Then it's boring," Lark said, uncrossing her legs and crossing them again the opposite direction.

"It represents purity," Guinevere argued over her shoulder, taking down the scrap of fabric and replacing it with another. Lark snorted nearly the same time as Vanora.

"The woman has a dozen children, no one is going to believe otherwise if she's in white," Lark said, rubbing at her temples. "Have I done my duty yet? I've never spent so long even in the arena in one sitting."

"Flee, but take me with you," Vanora said darkly.

"This is your wedding, don't you want it to be perfect?" Guinevere asked, deflating at frumious look on Vanora's face.

"Am I marrying Bors?" Vanora asked.

"Of course-"

"Then it will be perfect," Vanora said, taking the scraps of fabric from her and setting them aside. "Our lives have been perfect, even in this place. Even with him coming home stained in blood. I prayed that he would walk through my door coated in red and brown and black, and do you know why?"

"Because only the living walk through doors, even if they're covered in death," Lark said easily when Guinevere was at a loss for words. The woman sat up quickly, her tangle of hair falling around her shoulders. "Wear your barmaid's clothes. Wear a Roman's drapery. Meet your lover nude. It will not matter."

"Of course it matters!" Guinevere said firmly, turning over her shoulder to send a dark glare at the Lark.

"Does Arthur recall the dress you wore at your wedding?"

"What? Of course-"

"Could he even tell you the color?" Guinevere fought the urge to say that he could. Because, in all honesty, he had been so nervous and when he looked at her, his eyes rarely fell below her own.

"No," Guinevere said sullenly. "I suppose it doesn't matter."

"Thank the gods," Lark said, exploding to her feet in a movement that would have made both other women dizzy had they tried it. "You can let Arthur know that I have been made feel welcome enough to last the year."

"Arthur didn't-"

"He did," she cut off her queen with a dark glare. "And I would appreciate he never do it again." She left the small house at that, disappearing out into the mid day sun. Vanora chuckled as the woman walked away.

"She does not belong here," Guinevere said, lips drawn down.

"Do any of us belong here?" Vanora countered. "Arthur told you to bring her?"

"He thought it would put her at ease," Guinevere said, collecting her scraps of fabric and tying them together.

"He'd do that by letting her spend her time in the practice yard," Vanora said easily, slowly rising from the ground. She was not as young as she once was, and she did not spend her days sitting in one place for very long. Recovery from such torture was slow at best.

"She has to have purpose outside of warring," Guinevere said.

"And she'll find one," Vanora said, shaking the dirt from her skirts. "I'll hire her to keep peace in my tavern." The red headed woman laughed as her queen glared at her and left her home, skirts swishing behind her.

**-RP: Home-**

The wedding was held not but a few days later, and Bors nearly missed it. He'd passed out the morning of, drunk and stinking, and it was only that Dagonet found him and tossed him into a horse trough that he was awake for it. The children were running about, laughing and fighting and their youngest cried in the arms of one of the barmaids, but Bors was there, and Vanora was there, and that was all either could ask for.

"Hello, flower," Bors murmured as he stood in front of her. He was still damp from the horse trough, but she did not care. The man had done nothing in life the right way, but he did it his way. She'd learned long ago to simply accept it.

"Lover," she said back, trying her best and failing to look stern.

"Husband," he corrected.

"Not until your commander finishes his words," Vanora amended. Because surely enough, Arthur was joining them in union. Merlin had offered his service, but Bors was not comfortable with the idea. If she were honest, Vanora wasn't either. Their queen may be a woad, but Bors had spent most of his life at war with their people. Besides, Arthur was their leader.

"He'll finish before you can run away, flower," Bors said, gripping her hands more firmly than was necessary. She smiled at the gesture. "Coulda had Guinevere make you a dress like hers," he offered.

"She tried," Vanora said, looking down at her normal daily wear. Bors himself was in a clean shirt, which had to have been Dagonet's doing, because she knew he'd not had a truly clean one in years. "I am not silk and frills, love, or did you forget?" He laughed at that, a more subdued version of his deep, belly laughter.

"Not for a moment," he answered, drawing her closer to him and seeking her lips with his own. Arthur paused his speech a moment, cleared his throat, and glared hard at his knight, who only reluctantly let his wife retreat to an acceptable distance for the rest of the ceremony. It was distracting, having his wife-his wife, by the Gods!-so far away from him, and he couldn't help but stare.

"Bors!" Dag whisper shouted, striking him firmly between the shoulder blades.

"Oy!" he said, turning to look at the big man at his back. "Wa'sat for?"

"By the Gods, if you don't marry the woman, I will," Dagonet growled, turning him back toward his wife with strong hands on his shoulders. "Say the words, Bors."

"Words?" he asked, flummoxed for a moment. They were at the words part already?

"Y've been mine for a long time, flower," he said uneasily. "Asked ya't marry me years ago. Ya took yer sweet time wit'the answer." Dag cuffed him on the back of his head, but Gawain was already laughing. Vanora's smile softened the blow.

"Be careful, lover, I can still walk away," Vanora said, though there was a smile on her face. Arthur cleared his throat uncomfortably. "It's a pagan wedding, Christian, we talk through them." She gave Arthur a glare of her own.

"Carry on," Arthur murmured, a smile on his face.

"S'my home now, flower," Bors said easily, giving her a smile. "You'n the bastards." One of the children whooped excitedly at that and was hushed by Gawain, who'd sat himself amongst them.

"Well, I can't say's I've a better option," Vanora said, feigning a frown.

"Y'liar," Bors said, tugging her toward him and kissing her hard. Behind them, Arthur gave up, took a piece of cloth from Dagonet, and tied Vanora and Bors's hands together. The pair of them didn't seem to notice even as Arthur declared them married and retreated away from the tavern they'd all gathered in.

"C'mon, you squirrels," Gawain said, standing and taking the infant from the barmaid. "You all'll be coming with uncles Gawain, Tris and Dag tonight!" There was a roar of approval from the children as they stood. Gawain ignored the glade that Tristram sent him as they left the tavern. Bors and Vanora would be there most of the night, if the way they were going at it was anything to go by.

**AN: Alright, I fully understand that you don't need to read about the babysitting adventures of Dag, Gawain and Tristram. If you don't want to, this chapter is done. If you're like me, and the idea was just too good to pass up, please read on.**

"Uncle Dag?" Six asked, staring up at him from his back. The little boy had laid across his shins nearly an hour ago and had refused to move. Dagonet sighed and leaned forward over the child's head.

"Ma says we can pick names," he said, brow furrowed.

"That's a large task," Dagonet said solemnly, nodding his head. "Have you given it any thought?"

"I want a good name," the boy said. "Heard dad talk about Pa...Papa...Papamus?"

"The god?" Dag asked, to which little Six nodded. "Papaeus."

"Papas," Six tried again.

"Papaeus," Dag said slowly.

"Papaus," Six said confidently. Dag sighed and leaned back.

"Try something you can pronounce, Six," Dag said, and the boy deflated, flouncing against his legs.

"My names gonna be Tristram!" one of the young girls-Dag thought it was eight, but he couldn't be sure-said, sitting up with a shy, bashful look toward Tristram, who was on the other side of the room, sitting on a bed, a scowl on his face as Two and Three entertained him with tales of their day.

"Your a girl!" Two shouted, glaring over at her. "You can't be Tristram!"

"I want to be Gawain!" one of the boys shouted, and just like that, they were at war over the knight's names, fighting and squabbling as siblings often did. Gawain lay in the middle of the floor, eleven curled up on his chest, laughing for all he was worth.

"Enough!" Tristram finally shouted, and the lot of them instantly silenced. "You'll pick your own names, not steal them from the living."

"I'd've picked your name," Six said conspiratorially from his legs. "You're my favorite."

Dag smiled down at the kid, who yawned widely and scrubbed at the tip of his nose. "Get some sleep, Six."

"I'll talk to mom about my name tomorrow," Six said firmly, even as his eyelids drooped.

"You do that," he agreed, letting his eyes sweep over the rest of the brood. Most of them had passed out, but one was yet up, sitting by Tristram, head leaning against his shoulder, fighting sleep.

"God, we've gone soft," Gawain muttered up toward the ceiling.

"You were always soft," Tristram countered, glaring at the lion-maned knight.

"You were both soft," Dagonet said firmly. "I blame the pair of you for my ruin." The other knights chuckled at that and fell silent.


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter Nineteen: Fractured Dreams**

Six months. Lykopis glared out at the sunlight outside. For six months, they'd been sleeping during the day, fighting raiders and rapists and the gods only knew what else. They'd taken four alive in that time, and each time, Anaxilea had come out of the holding hut covered in blood with a scowl on her face.

"Do you remember what it's like to sleep at night?" Galahad asked, laying on his back and staring up at the stars.

"No," she muttered, glancing over at him. He'd deep purple bruises beneath each eye from lack of sleep, and there was a weariness to his gaze that was troubling. "Get some sleep. I'll keep watch."

"We agreed we'd both stay awake months ago," Galahad countered, but there was a hopeful lilt to his voice.

"That was when neither of us thought it would be months," she said. A few long minutes later, Galahad's breathing evened out, and he was lost to the world.

It had been the longest six months of her life, playing dog to her mother and the village. It made Galahad happy to be of use, and there were several young women vying for his affections. Useful, she did not covet though, and often times what labeled him brave labeled her a danger.

Not what she'd envisioned upon returning home. Of course, her return had only ever lasted a few days at most. After, she had never made a plan. There was always returning her brother home, and then she'd...

She'd what?

The stars had no answer for her as the wind picked up, rustling the grass around them. Aithon was lounged only a few feet off, ears pricked up and watching the world as if it was astounding. He'd proven to be a true gift. Not a week into their stay, one of the Persians had eyed the destrier with lustful eyes, and he'd demanded that she give him the beast. It had taken Aithon an entirety of three minutes to break his foot and damage his stomach to the point where the man had gone to sick bed for three days before finally succumbing to something that the healer called a ruptured something.

No one had touched the beast since then, and he shadowed her steps like a puppy, earning her a wide berth as well. The horse snorted beside her, drawing her attention. He was staring blatantly a short way across the field, where three shadows slipped up toward them.

"Galahad," Lykopis murmured, shaking him slightly. He groaned and blinked up at her.

"Was'it?" he asked, words slurred from sleep.

"If you'd rather sleep, Aithon and I can handle it." In a moment, he was awake, sword drawn and blinking owlishly into the darkness, trying to find the source of her discomfort. He found it after a long pause and squared himelf.

"Show yourselves!" he shouted as Lykopis and Aithon stood-one slightly more quickly than the other, but Lykopis would blame the ache in her thigh if anyone asked.

"It's time you left," a voice said, familiar but foreign enough that Lykopis could not place it immediately.

"I was thinking the same about you," Galahad called, and through the darkness, three of the Persians from the village came, two with wicked blades and one with a large war hammer. Lykopis eyed the three of them a moment. The man with the hammer was too small to really wield it, and so she slipped through the darkness, meeting one with the a blade, catching it along her claws and sliding down the length. She'd taken to carrying a short dagger over the months, and she drew it quickly, plunging it into his stomach and ripping upward.

Somewhere behind her, she heard Galahad grunt in pain, and she turned, trying to find the source. Something exploded in her ribcage, and she fell, grunting out the pain of a hammer blow. Ribs broken, she was willing to bet as she rolled and dodged another heavy handed blow. He was clumsy with it, and she easily drug the claws across his throat.

"Gal?" she called in the silence between difficult breaths.

"Bastard cut me," he said darkly, and she knew he was well enough from the annoyance there.

"That's the point of a sword," Lykopis said absentmindedly, trying to support her ribs as she found him in the darkness.

"You alright?" Galahad asked, pulling himself from his perusal of his bicep, where he'd been cut-not too deep, but it would hurt for a week-from one side to the other.

"Difficult to breath with a hammer in your ribs," Lykopis offered, leaning against Aithon, who bumped her good side lightly.

"At least he wasn't as big as Dag," Galahad said, a smile on his face.

"You'd be burying me, if he was as big as Dag," Lykopis said, trying to picture taking a blow from the hammer of the big man.

"Here lay Lykopis, she who growls at the-"

"Quiet before I cut out your tongue," Lykopis said half heartedly. Galahad laughed at her as he studied the face of the man at his feet.

"I know him," Galahad said.

"They're from the village," Lykopis confirmed. "Persians settle into the village, take wives while the sons are gone, and kidnap the rest in the night."

"I'll kill them all," Galahad said darkly, voice inked with something.

"Easy, pup," Lykopis said. "If you don't watch it, you'll start to sound like you enjoy it." He fell quiet at that and instead waited for Lykopis to ease Aithon to the ground before laying the three dead men across his back. The horse took the weight easily and without complaint, and followed them back to the village.

"Anaxilea," Lykopis called as she entered the hut. The women had long since taken to sleeping in their own homes, but their mother still waiting up either for the delivery of another prisoner or news.

"You're back early," the woman said, standing from her spot at the fire.

"You won't like it," Lykopis said, leading her from the hut and around the back. Galahad stood a few paces from the horse, tending to his arm silently. Anaxilea eyed the men a moment before crossing to them and lifting a head.

"Arash," she said, immediately recognizing his face. She dropped his head and ripped the next upright, blood still flowing freely. "Dara." Another head dropped and another pulled into view. "Firuz."

"You know them, then," Galahad said darkly.

"Men of the village," Anaxilea said darkly. "I did not see this. I did not see it, and they are gone."

"There's no way you could have known," Galahad said, awkwardly trying to comfort the woman. There had been many such exchanges in the last six months, none of which ended well.

"I should have seen it," she hissed at him, gripping Aithon's reigns tightly and tugging the destrier toward the village. The large grey and white beast threatened to rear and send its cargo to the ground. "Damned thing!"

"Easy," Lykopis chided, taking the reigns and growling low to the horse, which happily picked its way forward, following Lykopis into town.

It was still dark when Anaxilea stopped them at the center of town and started pulling bodies off of the back of the horse, letting the limp forms fall to the ground in a heap one by one. She walked around them a moment, looking down at the familiar faces before hauling them upright, settling their backs against a horse trough.

"They have wives here," Anaxilea said, standing in front of her work.

"Well, they'll be pleased," Galahad said darkly.

"There are enough of them here that they will call for blood."

"Then I will give them blood," the knight said, gripping the hilt of his sword. Lykopis glared at her brother, that stupid frown on his face, the ignorant courage in his shoulders. She quietly swore at Gawain in her mind. When you give strength to a child, that strength is often misused. When you give courage to a lone warrior...

Well, she'd spent too long keeping him alive.

"That ends well," Lykopis snarled, earning herself a dark look from her mother.

"The village needed its protectors, and they were desperate enough to offer shelter to nomads," Anaxilea said, looking down at the bodies. At first, there had only been three or four, but over the years, the Persians had grown to outnumber the Sarmatians still in the village "There is no where else to go."

"Yes, there is," Galahad said, voice strong and sure. Lykopis sighed and rolled her head on her shoulders.

"How are you going to lead an entire village away from what they know and across a sea and through Woad and Roman territory just to show up at the wall without place for them?" she asked, hoping that the question would extinguish the fire in his stomach.

"Arthur is a good man," Galahad argued. "He wouldn't turn away those that needed shelter."

"And those that can't make the journey on horseback?" Lykopis asked. "I watched Arthur drag a broken people across land before, Galahad. Or have you forgotten that you nearly lost Dagonet then?"

"Nearly? He had two arrows in him. We've all had worse."

"And if I hadn't have whispered in Fulciana's ear?" Lykopis asked. "If I hadn't have told her that some people were worth dying for?"

"You-"

"She died there. She atoned for the sin of her silence, and she died there. Dagonet is a great man, but could he have taken her arrows and his own and gotten back from the edge of the ice in time?" Galahad glared sullenly at the ground.

"We can't just leave them here to be sold as slaves," he said at last. Anaxilea had remained quiet throughout their discussion until finally, she deflated as an old woman. She looked the part of an old woman then, with grey in her hair and lines at the corners of her mouth.

"Go," she said finally, turning toward them. "Be silent and quick. Get the horses first. Bring them to the hut. I know where the Persians are housed, and I will be quick stealing their wives."

"Stealing?" Galahad asked, confusion coloring his face.

"If you take everyone else, but leave their wives, the women will face the wrath of what you've done," she said, staring into his face. "Are you willing to make that sacrifice?" Galahad did not answer and instead went to gather the horses tethered around the village.

"He can gather horses," Lykopis said. "I know where some of the others live. I'll wake everyone and get them out to the hut by sunrise."

"Go," Anaxilea agreed, and the pair parted ways.

**-RP: Fractured Dreams-**

Zal woke to the smell of smoke and an empty bed. There had been times in the past where his wife had woken before he and started the hearth fire and their breakfast. Few and far between, given the lazy thing that she was, but they were his favorite days.

He'd not have to beat her those mornings.

He rolled over and sat up, rubbing dreams from his eyes. The smell of smoke was heavier then, thick and woody, too much to be a breakfast fire.

He opened his eyes to fire. He closed his eyes to fire.

Out on the furthest rise visible from the village, some forty people gathered, all staring down as the village they once knew came to life. It came to life in screams and pain and flames, but it came to life, and quickly, it came to death. Some on the rise wept openly. Some stared solemnly down at the scene.

Anaxilea stood alone, some ten paces in front of the rest, tears running down her face and a smile on her lips.

**-RP: Fractured Dreams-**

Lancelot had enjoyed the last six months, truly he had. He'd his sister in his life each morning. He'd had the light eyed Kati to keep him company when his sister was out doing her work. There had been a handful of others in the village that he'd gotten to know on a first name basis. He had helped raise a house just last week. There'd been talk of a hunt.

In short, Lancelot was completely and totally miserable.

How did people survive like this? The same thing day in and day out. Weed the garden. Gather the ready vegetables. Bring in the fishing nets and traps. Reset the nets and traps. Keep what you need. Sell the rest. Help someone raise a house or till a new garden.

It was fun for the first few weeks, learning new tasks, picking up little tips and tricks like how to grasp the net without letting it bite into his fingers or keeping the mule walking straight at the till. It had taken him three weeks to discover that he hated it all. The monotony. The day in and day out of everything that caused no change, did no good. They still struggled. They still pained. They still died of infections that Dagonet could treat while on the road.

It was maddening.

It was frustrating.

It was...

"Lance!" Kati shouted, running up the road toward him, the normal smile on her face missing. "Lancelot!"

"What?" he asked, putting aside the fishing trap he was fixing.

"Alda," she said between gasping breaths. She grabbed his hand and tugged, pulling him along until he started running, damning her short legs as they went. His sister had gone out that morning with a fishing boat, changing some nets and doing routine tasks. He'd kissed her forehead and bid her a good day and turned down the offer to go out because he'd been on the boat every day that week.

She drug him to the docks, through a small crowd of fishermen and into a ring of nothing, where his sister's body lay, soaked and pale and with some man trying to force water from her lungs.

"Alda?" he whispered, something like an earthquake starting in his spine, fine and shaking and growing with each passing moment.

"Lass's foot was in the netting," a man said from beside him. "Pulled her right under."

"Al," he heard Kati whisper beside him, a tone of resignation in her voice. "Gods, Al."

"No," he muttered, and took a step backward, hand out in front of him as if it could banish the site. A few short steps and he was outside of the ring of people, sinking to his knees.

"I swear that I will pray. I will face any wrong I've ever done. I will convert to your religion and tell Arthur that he was right. I will...pay whatever cost you deem worthy," he stuttered out the prayer, awkward on his lips. He'd seen Arthur do this so many times, so often that he drew on that.

"Lance!" Kati shouted, and he turned, sitting on his backside, staring at the woman that had tears in her eyes and a smile on her lips so watery that it should have dripped from her chin. "Come on." She tugged him to his feet and back through the crowd to his sister, who still lay on the ground, the man no longer pressing water from her lungs. Except now, her chest rose and fell. There was a redness to her cheeks and her eyes rolled behind her closed lids.

"Oh," he said, the sound bubbling up from somewhere in his stomach. "Oh, God." He was sure that he'd taken a step forward, but in the next moment, he was waking up, flat on his back, under the thatched roof of his home.

"Great knight of Hadrian's Wall, feinting at a little near drowning," Alda's voice chided. He surged upright, finding her not a few feet off, laying in her own furs on the ground beside him.

"Don't you ever-" he cut himself off as he scrabbled forward, pulling her from her furs and into his chest, where he could feel her alive and breathing.

"Easy," Alda murmured, rubbing his back in a gesture that he had seen Vanora do to her children over the years. "These things happen; it's alright."

"This is so far from alright," Lancelot bit back, holding her out at arms' length and staring at her. "I just found you."

"You did," Alda said, that quirked smile of hers making her look less tired. "The Gods don't love you, Lancelot. They'll make you suffer my presence a few years more."

"Let them," he said, finally letting her go and settling back to sit down. "Because it wasn't our gods that I asked to make you breathe again."

"Arthur's?" Alda asked, that sly smile on her face. "Kati told me you prayed to Arthur's god on the dock."

"I did not know what else to do," Lancelot said. "I used to give him such hell for talking to his god and not to me."

"And yet, you did the same thing," Alda teased.

"Had he been there, I'd have talked to him," Lancelot reasoned. "But he wasn't."

"So you talked to the closest thing to him that you could." Alda was an observant woman. She'd known love in her life. A salty young man who had been out on a boat when the Romans had come through. He'd taught her how to weave a net and set a trap and helped around the house until their father had blessed the union.

"I was married, once," she murmured, lost in her thoughts.

"What?" he asked, sitting forward.

"Hm," she confirmed, nodding, a ghost of a smile on her lips. "Arungu was a good man, but he was stubborn. He was ill and refused treatment in favor of a trip down the river to the sea. We needed the money the fishing would provide. He did not return."

"I'm sorry," Lancelot said, staring at his hands. How had he now known his sister had married? How had he now known that she'd lost that husband?

"I hate this village," she murmured, and when he looked up, she had tears in her eyes. "I hate the lake, and I hate the sea. I hate fishing, and I hate him for leaving me here."

"No, you don't, love," he said, taking her hand in his and squeezing it gently.

"Yes," she said after a moment. "I do." She stood then, and was gone from the hut, far more steady on her legs than she thought she'd be.

He laid back on his furs, staring blankly up at the ceiling. He'd promised Alda he'd make her a proper bed. When he'd asked her if she'd mind if he made himself a straw mattress, she'd been more interested than she should have been, mostly because they all just slept in furs on the ground.

He sighed and forced himself up from the ground with an exaggerated grunt and a twinge in his chest. Occasionally, the wound there from the Saxon battle would throb, but it had long ago healed. The aches and pains of a young man turning old, he supposed.

He picked his way through a field overgrown with grass, a large tightly bound bundle of cut grass at his back and one draped across his shoulder with a rope. He'd have to dry it and work it to softness, but it would be worth it when all was said and done. He'd even-and he'd deny it if anyone asked-gathered wild flowers to dry in the grasses of Alda's mattress.

The hut was dark when he returned, but he could make out the form of Kati, sitting in the corner, where she tended to haunt when she was there.

"Alda wanted to make sure you hadn't run off," Kati said by way of explanation of her presence.

"And where is my sweet sister?" Lance asked, dropping the grass at the door.

"Alda told me about the mattresses," Kati said, springing forward with wide, hopeful eyes. "Make me one and I'll see that your sister isn't the one to repair your clothes."

"I can repair my own clothes," Lancelot said, but he gave her a smile that let her know that she should continue to sweeten the deal.

"I'll tell you about Alda in her wild years," Kati offered.

"Tell me about Arungu," Lancelot countered. Kati's face fell at that, and she bit at her bottom lip viciously. He let her think on it as he unbound the grass and spread it out, digging little trenches so that the air could get beneath it.

"I could just watch you and do it myself," she said, sitting down beside him and watching as his hands straightened and organized. "That's a lot of grass." He untied the second bundle and did the same, taking up much of the free space on the floor. He'd have to sleep outside, he mused.

"Tell me," he insisted, leaning back against a heavy pole that had been set to support one of the walls.

"Why should I-"

"Because without your sad attempts at bartering, there is more than enough grass here for three mattresses." Her face lit up at that, and she thrashed him soundly on the shoulder.

"You are a bad man!" she said firmly, but there was a wide smile on her lips. "Trying to act like a tough knight of the great wall!"

"You and Alda seem to have these notions on what a knight should act like," he said with a smile. "I don't think any of them are true."

"Well," Kati said, rubbing at the side of her neck. "We've never met one before. It's not like anyone else has ever returned. You won't tell us anything but that you were at Hadrian's Wall and that you served under a man named Arthur."

"What else is there to tell?" Lancelot asked, the humor fading from his voice.

"Everything else," Kati said firmly, huffing in exasperation. "Alda respects your privacy enough not to hound you, but I don't."

"Question for question," Lancelot declared, drawing his swords from a wooden chest along with a whet stone and polishing cloth. He'd left them there since he'd arrived, not wanting the weight of them on his shoulders any longer. Now though, he craved the familiar action of sharpening and cleaning.

"Within reason," she agreed, settling down across from him, legs crossed like a child. He smirked at her and gestured her to start, falling into the rhythm of his actions. "Where's Hadrian's Wall?" she asked with a childlike glee. An easy enough start, he guessed.

"On the isle of Briton," he offered succinctly, smirking at the dark glare she gave him.

"That is not your answer," she said firmly, crossing her arms across her chest.

"Yes, it is. Who was Arungu?"

"A fisherman," Kati said, lips turned down in a pout. He deserved that, he supposed.

"Hadrian's Wall was ordered built by a Roman Emperor as a means to establish a fall back point for the soldiers and to control the movement of the Woads in the North of Briton," he offered. "I was stationed at one outpost nearly a two day hard ride from the western coast."

"You saw the ocean?" she asked, excited, leaning forward.

"Yes," he said with an indulgent smile. "Who was Arungu?" Kati deflated and threw herself backward, smashing some of the grass with a huff.

"He was a boy that we both grew up with," she said hesitantly. "A good man, by all counts, and he loved your sister. He'd a temper though, more often than not directed at me for some reason or another." There was a wry smile on her lips at that, and he couldn't help but think on what Kati would have done to bring down that wrath.

"And Alda loved him," Lancelot said. Kati grunted an affirmative.

"What did you do? in Briton?" she asked, but the energy was out of her, as if she didn't care for the answer.

"Most of the time, my brothers and I just trained. Sparred in the arena. Went on small missions to settle a peace or defend a convoy to and from the port. Occasionally we were called out to put down an uprising or track down bandits."

"And the rest of the time?" she asked.

"Sometimes, we'd defend the island from invaders," he said, shrugging one shoulder. "Usually from the island's inhabitants to the North."

"So you defended land from its own people?" she asked, sitting upright and fixing him with a dark look.

"I did not say that it was a rightful duty," he said with a simple shrug. He tested the edge of the first blade, and happy with the result, sheathed it.

"Well, when you weren't fighting, what then?" she asked.

"What happened to him?" Lancelot countered. He'd been patient, and she'd some of her spark back.

"He died," she said simply, shrugging one shoulder. "No one really knows for sure, but he took his boat down the long river to the ocean. He never returned."

"So he could yet live," Lancelot said, sitting forward and gripping his other sword. It felt natural to have it in hand again.

"No," Kati said with a frown. "Don't...don't make that a possibility again."

"Why? If she loved him, and I can bring him-"

"Because it was three years ago," Kati said, cutting him off. "If he lived and wanted to return, he'd have done it by now." Ah, he thought. Now there was the heart of it. The resolved hatred in his sister's eye, hidden among great sadness.

"She doesn't think him dead," Lancelot said darkly, unsheathing the blade with a rough tug. The metal sung, and it drew Kati's eyes. "Let him be death then."

"She only stays here for me, you know," Kati admitted, ducking her head. "She'd been begging him to travel before he left. Anywhere. She asked me once if I'd go with her. I didn't...I had my parents here, and the baby..." She shrugged half heartedly at that.

"The baby?" he asked. He'd seen her running to and fro and back again, and never once had there been a child at her heels.

"Tell me of the other knights!" she commanded instead of answering. "Any young and available?" she batted her eyes at him.

"None so available as me," he teased, but fell into the steady rhythm of sharpening his second blade. "Arthur was married when I left. Bors has Vanora and their brood of hell raisers. The rest were not tied to one woman in particular." He shrugged a shoulder.

"And any worth mentioning?" she asked.

"They were all good men, in their own way," he admitted. "None of us...well, none of us wanted to leave a wife and children should we not survive our service."

"But this Bors did?"

"Bors was too tough to kill," Lancelot countered, a smirk in place. "And he'd never catch an eye as beautiful as Vanora's again." They fell into silence at that.

"I had a child, little thing was nearly one when the fever gripped his bones and ripped him from me." He stopped the slow drag of the whet stone and stared at her. She'd a smile on her face, but a watery thing that promised more tears than happiness. "Rhon, I called him, and he'd his father's hair, but my eyes and smile, so it was alright."

"Where is his father?"

"I don't know," she said darkly. "A terrible thing, the raiding parties that come by on occasion, and not my fault, so everyone says, but none will marry a woman that's...well." She glared darkly down at her skirt.

"A wrong practice," he said, nudging her with his foot. She chuckled at that and sat upright, all traces of the darkness in her gone.

"Where is this sister of yours?" she asked, eyes running over the grass, still green and fresh. "And more importantly, how long is my mattress to take?"

"At least a week," he cautioned. "If you don't dry it well enough, it molds." She crinkled her nose at that.

"I am not known for my patience," she mused, and they fell silent for several long minutes.

"She really wants to leave the lake, then?" he asked, startling Kati from her perusal of the flowers he'd picked.

"More than anything, I think," she replied, setting down a small aster flower.

"Then I will take her," he said firmly. Her head shot up at that, eyes finding him. "After I finish your mattress of course."

"You'll do no such thing, you foul creature!" she raged, throwing a handful of grass at his head. He ducked it with a chuckle. "I'll not be able to tramp a mattress across the steps, now will I?"

"I didn't know you were moving," he said, trying to hide the smile on his lips.

"You're not funny," she said, arms crossed in a pathetic pout.

"Aye, I am," he said, finally settled with his second blade and sheathed it quickly. "But you'll come with us, if it's your wish. Alda wouldn't speak to me for a fortnight if you didn't."

"She'd likely let you starve as well," Kati agreed. The pair chuckled at that. "I'd best go see if I need to do any mending." She rose in one fluid motion, hand held out toward him. He arched an eyebrow at it.

"What?"

"Well, you can't honestly think you know how to do it proper," she said with a huff. He shook his head and gestured her toward the door.

"Vanora taught us all years ago, and if I ever see her again, she'll have my head for not doing it myself."

"Oh, you'll see her, because you'll not get by without showing us that wall of yours." She slipped out the door and was gone in half a breath. Lancelot sighed and looked down at his blades.

"Well," he muttered into the hut. "That could have gone better." He laid the blades back in the wooden truck among the armor he hadn't worn since he'd started riding around the lake and the parchment that gave him free transport throughout the Roman empire.


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter Twenty: Burned**

Lykopis growled under her breath about the ignorance of women for the hundredth time since they'd watched the village burn. First it had been baths. Because the grimy women of the Crimea apparently bathed. Lykopis surely couldn't smell the difference, but they'd insisted. Which meant they'd spent the better part of every other morning-and that had been a hard earned victory by Anaxilea and Lykopis-by a stream with Galahad and the rest of the Scythian and Sarmatian men from the village standing off a few paces.

If that had been the all of it, the she wolf would have counted them blessed and ran on clouds across the sea grasses. Unfortunately, whatever gods she had bound her oaths to over the years were not benevolent creatures.

There had been blisters. Walking blisters on their delicate feet, because apparently, while they were used to women's duties and light work in their gardens, they were not accustomed to long hours walking. They were also not accustomed to pain. Lykopis has offered to be their introduction to that particular obstacle, but Galahad had shot her one of his dark looks.

Food was a particular hassle. Prey animals were few and far between, and often times they heard the group coming long before anyone saw them. The grumbling and whining after their stomachs and the tasteless grasses that Anaxilea had shown them to chew on had driven Lykopis to scouting out for hours at a time, often times coming back with a hare or snake.

The first time she'd tossed a headless snake into a campfire to cook, one of the women had turned a shade of green that Lykopis had never seen before on a person. She'd only been saved killing the woman when Dnaestre-Dnaestre of all people-looked down at it with a smile and a rub of his belly, declaring that snake was as good eating as any fish ever pulled from the sea.

They'd been gone from the village near a month when the mutterings starting. Mutterings that Lykopis, for all of her will power and practice with ignoring them, could no longer stomach.

"If one more doe eyed maid asks me how many more days of marching, I'll kill them all," Lykopis promised darkly from her seat beside her family's small fire. Dnaestre and Anaxilea had somehow along the way managed to agree not to make the journey any more difficult and combine their forces. Galahad was as pleased as a dog that's master had praised it for pissing on the floor.

"S'just a question, girl," Dnaestre said. Lykopis glared at him from the eyes of the wolf pelt. She'd taken to wearing the thing up and over her face at all times, as it kept most of the villagers away from her.

"It is a complaint," she corrected with a low growl, stabbing at a loose ember with the end of a stick.

"This shouldn't have taken this long," Galahad agreed.

"When you don't wake until the sun is high and you must wash and gather supplies until it is past noon, you make no headway," Lykopis snarled, tossing the stick into the flames to be eaten. "Not even the Romans moved this slowly, and they had to stop to steal you all from your homes."

"Surely we're making better time," Galahad insisted, eyes wide.

"No," Lykopis said. "We have not yet even reached Gawain's village."

"But that was-"

"Very early in your march," Lykopis said, cutting him off in her annoyance.

"What do you expect?" Anaxilea asked, the first indication that she'd heard anything said. "They will not journey in the dark. They will not leave without a morning meal or wash. They will not travel without breaks."

"It took us a month from the fort to the village," Lykopis said darkly. "We've been on the road that long and haven't gone a quarter of the distance."

"We will get there," Dnaestre said firmly, in a tone that made Lykopis feel like a small child again. She slid her eyes over his left side, the side that refused to function. He required assistance nearly constantly, and often times, Galahad insisted he ride the knight's horse. Lykopis deflated.

The women slowed the pace.

The men-most old or crippled in some manner-could move no faster anyway.

"I leave in the morning," she said at length, drawing Galahad's sharp eyes. "I made a promise the first time I crossed this land, and I will keep it. I will meet you before you reach the ocean."

"What could be so important?" Galahad raged, glaring at her over the fire.

"A promise," she said simply. "What, don't remember your way, pup?"

"Of course I remember my-"

"Then you'll lead your village to the west until you reach the ocean. I will meet you there or follow after."

"This isn't the time to go running off," Galahad insisted, face taking on that spoiled child pout that he'd not ever lost.

"It is leave or rip the throat out of the next weeping soul that complains," Lykopis snarled, making a fist and tightening the claws to her knuckles.

"No one is-"

"Excuse me?" Lykopis winced at the hesitant tone of the elderly man that stood not a pace behind Galahad, his face distorted from the flickering of the fire. Lykopis glared hard at Galahad.

"Nester," Dnaestre said, holding out an arm for the man to shake. "What is it my friend?"

"The men are concerned for their children and wives," Nester said, eyes flickering hesitantly from Dnaestre to Galahad, as if they somehow had secret knowledge of some problem.

"What concern?" Galahad asked, brow furrowed in worry.

"I'm sure you know as well as any, but food has been scarce, and the journey long already. Winter can't be far off now..." He let the question die as Lykopis growled low in the back of her throat.

"Atanea!" Dnaestre hissed, and the name made something flicker in her stomach.

"So hunt!" she shouted, standing up and turning in a wide circle around the fire. "I am not the only one with a bow, and Galahad is not the only one who knows snares!"

"We are a fishing peopl-"

"You will learn, or you will be a dead people," she hissed, leaping over the small fire and landing in front of him, crouched low with the four claws tight against his throat.

"Lykopis!" Galahad shouted, standing and drawing his sword. She considered him a moment, then the old man. Sighing, she dropped the metal bar that held the claws close to her hand and stood up.

"Guide them west," she said easily, taking measured steps toward her brother. "Feed them. Protect them. Kill them. You are as foolish as your Arthur." She pushed him hard with both hands, sending him stumbling backward a half step.

"That is not an insult," he raged at her as he straightened.

"Yes!" she hissed. "It is." She left the fire then, slipping into the darkness and away from the camp, knowing that Aithon, the puppy of a horse that he was, would follow her into the darkness.

It was only the night's hard ride before she reached the small village with the stone well that she recalled from her youth. The village itself had decreased in size since last she'd been there, and if she wracked her memory, she could recall what some of the ruined stone houses had looked like in the past.

There were no men bustling around, only women, and it felt more natural for a people who had had their sons stolen yearly. An elderly woman, older than Lykopis by a good thirty years, smiled at her as she drew up a bucket of water from the well.

"Traveling through?" she asked, voice cracked and raspy with age. Her wrinkled arms struggled with the weight of the bucket.

"Yes," Lykopis said, reaching out and drawing the rope up easily. The woman smiled her thanks.

"These old limbs..." the woman said with a sigh and a shake of her head. "Don't age, my dear. Simply tell your body that it will remain as it is and pray to the gods that it is so."

"We are born. We age. We die," Lykopis countered. "I'd rather not skip the middle." The woman cackled out a laugh at that.

"True enough, I suppose," she said. "Can I help you find something?"

"A young woman," Lykopis said. "She would be my age and red haired. Izi was her name." The woman nodded, but the smile had fled her face.

"Izi will be in her mother's home," she said, gesturing up the road. "How long since you've seen the girl?"

"Many years," Lykopis answered.

"Then I am sorry," she said, taking the weight of her water skin in both arms and turning from the well. "The home has fire brush beside the door. You'll find it."

Lykopis watched her go, and only after she had disappeared did she think to thank the woman. Dealing with people was...difficult. Especially people that were of use. The house was easy to find, well kept for such a village and small. Lykopis stood outside of it for a long moment, staring at the door as though Izi would appear through it by her will alone. The fire-haired woman did not, and so Lykopis walked to the door, calling out as she neared.

"Hello!" she shouted. "Izi?"

"C'n I help ya?" a woman asked, appearing in the door. She was old, bent with age with a heaviness to her eyes that made Lykopis uncomfortable.

"I am looking for a woman named Izi."

"And I asked ya if I could help ya," the woman repeated. "M'er mother." Lykopis stared at the woman a moment, deciding if the annoyance was worth the kept promise. The image of a young girl, crying in the dark made her sigh.

"I promised her something several years ago. I am not going to be able to keep that promise, but I would bring her news."

"Promised her what?" the woman asked, the annoyance in her tone gone.

"That I would bring a young man back to her, once his service had ended," Lykopis said. The woman's jaw dropped at that, and she heaved out a long sigh.

"Gawain is dead then," she said, rubbing at her forehead. "Best be tellin' his poor father. S'mother, rest 'er, would be in fits."

"He's not-"

"Thank ya for bringin' the news," she said, cutting Lykopis off sharply.

"He's not dead," Lykopis snarled, wincing at the way the woman flinched away from her. The fear was immediately replaced with an anger that bubbled up.

"S'not a thing on this earth'd keep that boy from my Izi," she said firmly, hands crossing across her chest. "Yer lyin' if yer tellin' me he's alive and not here."

"Fifteen years, woman. Fifteen long years, and he has responsibilities to a kingdom that he calls his home." Lykopis said firmly. "I told your daughter that I would bring her news at the end of his servitude. I intend to do that, with or without you."

"You'll be doin' no such thing!" the woman raged. "S'my daughter! She's hurtin' enough without you tellin' 'er the boy's gone off'n put babes in some Roman."

"Put babes in..." Lykopis stared at the woman, wide eyed and dazed. "He doesn't have children or a woman. He stands with men he calls brothers."

"What sorta man'd stay with strangers over'is family?" the woman asked, face red. "N'leave good-"

"Enough of your tantrum!" Lykopis snarled, pressing forward and pushing the woman to the side. The home was small enough, and inside, just a few feet away, sat the red haired girl that Lykopis remembered. She was on the floor with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, her bright riot of hair falling around her shoulders. She'd tears running down her cheeks, the light door covering not enough to keep out their conversation.

It wasn't the tears that caught Lykopis's attention. It wasn't the red hair or the familiar stubborn jaw. It was the scar that ate up half of her face, from the angle of her jaw up over her cheek and left eye, stopping just before her brow. The eye itself was pale and white, damaged beyond sight.

"Hello, oir-pata," Izi murmured, voice soft and missing any of the fire that Lykopis recalled it having.

"Get outta my-"

"Mother," Izi said, cutting her off. "She and I have something to settle. Please?" And as if a wraith, the woman disappeared out the door.

"Izi," Lykopis said, walking until she was looking into the bright green eye of the girl she remembered. "A wolf keeps its promise."

"I couldn't hunt you down even if I'd wanted," she said, a wry smile on her lips, lips that were mercifully spared the scarring.

"And why is that?" Lykopis asked, trying to ignore the way that her beauty was shattered.

"Because I've a mother that thinks me broken and a hand that can't even hold this blanket." The girl held up her right hand, that sad smile back in place as she flexed the hand that was as scarred as her face.

"So you'll sit here, in a hut, until you die?" Lykopis asked, something like fire flaring in her stomach. One eye had been more than enough for Percival for five years as a knight. For the last seven of his life, Ywain had only one hand.

"That is what I've been doing for a year," Izi muttered, raising her eyebrows in challenge.

"Then you have wasted a year," Lykopis said darkly. "As foolish of a woman as you were a child."

"What else is there for me to do?" Izi asked, straightening slightly, voice cracking with anger.

"Live. Work. Make yourself of use," Lykopis said, dismissing her annoyance. "Anything but wallow in the pathetic pity that you're drowning in."

"I'm not drowning in anything," Izi snapped, rising to her feet in one fluid motion.

"So she can stand," Lykopis egged, pushing the woman onward.

"Of course I can stand; it's my face that's burned!" Izi shouted, her hair falling forward and covering the half of her face that had been burned.

"Now your face criples you? I'd though it was your hand," Lykopis said.

"My hand does criple me!" Izi said, holding the arm out in front of her.

"A shame you don't have another," Lykopis said softly, fighting to hide the smile from his lips.

"You are..." Izi sighed, letting her head fall to her chest. "You're infuriating."

"And you were willing to follow Gawain once," Lykopis said. "Would you do it again?"

"Would I-" she bit her bottom lip a moment, eyes watering. "Why would I?"

"A man's gone fifteen years without cutting his hair just because you told him to," Lykopis said. "At least have the courage to free him of your memory."

"You tell him," Izi said, deflating slightly from her earlier rage. "I've no place there."

"You've place here?" Lykopis asked. "Because your mother will die, little Izi. She will die, and you will be left alone in a village of the old, half blind and miserable."

"Half blind and miserable here is better than half blind and miserable there."

"What about half blind and happy?"

"Happy?" Izi asked, as if it was a far off memory.

"You've been injured a year, not your life. I remember the girl you were."

"And you know me because of that?" she asked, the fire igniting in her belly again. "From a conversation you had in the dark with a girl?"

"No," Lykopis said easily, with a tone of finality. "Because of the conversation I had with a woman now." Izi's jaw tightened at that, and Lykopis sighed. "I leave in the morning. I head west. You'll find me at the well until sunrise. If you should want to see your knight again, you'll meet me there." She went for the door then, something making her stop there and look back. "Gawain grew up into a good man. He...none of the knights are without their scars. They're proud of them, no matter where or how ugly."

Lykopis stared moodily out at the horizon, letting Aithon carry her lazily up over another rise. The sun had been up for the better part of an hour, and she'd left the town just as it had come up over the first rise. Izi hadn't showed, but Lykopis did not wait overlong.

Halfway through the night, she'd regretted the offer. Her brother was already leading a small army toward the wall. For what did they need a broken girl, sulking in her own misery? The fire eyed girl she'd known would be a welcome distraction from the rest, but the woman she'd found...

"Wolf!" a sharp cry broke the air, angry and edged with annoyance. Aithon's ears perked at that, and he danced sideways to pull his head around. Lykopis sighed and let the great beast do as he wanted. There was little time that he did anything else; what point was there to attempt it now?

His eyes found her easily, standing atop a hill, and Lykopis let him stand there, waiting for her to cross the distance on foot. She'd left with little more than she had the first time, just the clothes on her back and a small pack, for which Lykopis was grateful.

"You said sunrise," Izi said, voice accusatory.

"I left at sunrise," Lykopis countered. "You were late."

"I thought you might wait," Izi said, falling in to step with Aithon as they walked.

"For a broken little girl that wasn't ever going to leave her mother's shadow?"

"My mother's shadow isn't this long," Izi said firmly, and they walked in silence.

"Here," Lykopis said, holding a hand out for the girl to take and slipping her foot from the stirrup. "Aithon will carry you."

"I can-"

"I told my brother I would meet him at a port to the west. I don't want to miss them." Izi stared at her hand darkly for a moment, and extended her good one. Lykopis stared at the hand a moment. She could easily walk to the other side of the horse and use her good hand to haul herself into the saddle, but on the side she was, the better angle would be...

"No," Lykopis said, dropping the good hand and gesturing toward the other. Izi hesitantly tried gripping with her burned hand, wincing at the unyielding grasp that Lykopis took her hand in. She was hauled up into the saddle and for a moment, if only just a moment, the red haired girl felt as her old self.

**-RP: Burned-**

Lancelot sat on his horse, watching his sister and Kati as they stood at the mouth of a river as it went into the ocean. Alda had been hesitant to leave, but once they'd stepped first foot outside of the village, she'd insisted that she wanted to see the ocean. Lancelot had not disagreed, though he wondered at how healthy it could be for the woman to want to see the thing that had taken her husband from her, willingly or otherwise.

They'd spent the better part of the morning sunning in the sand or chasing each other in the low tide like children. At least, he mused, it was the Aegean and not the Black. The blue water was calming to look at, and the tide pools gave the two women plenty to stare at. He'd spent the better part of the morning riding up and down the coastline, checking and double checking that they weren't wandering into somewhere he'd rather they not be.

"Lance!" Alda called, waving at him from hip deep in blue water. "Get off your horse and relax." She'd an infinitely happy look on her face as she stood there, and he couldn't help but do as she bid. There'd never been any question in his mind that when he returned to his family, his sister would still command him as she did as a child.

"Someone has to assure that you haven't drawn undo attention," he said as he neared, removing his boots to keep them dry before wading out into the water. It was colder than he'd imagined, but the women chased and splashed each other as though it was warm.

"We have a great knight of Hadrian's Wall," Kati teased as she dodged Alda's lunge. "What have we to fear?" Lancelot simply shook his head at the antics of women that had never grown up from childhood.

They stayed there for three days, camping along the beach and finding dinner in tide pools and on the lucky end of an arrow. Lucky, Lancelot mused, because he was shite with a bow. Tristram or even Galahad would have been a better hunter, but he'd kept them fed thus far. At the end of the third day, Alda had thrown her head back and sighed into the twilight.

"The ocean is more beautiful than any woman could ever be," she said, lounging back into the sand.

"Oh, I don't know about that," Lancelot said, a smile quirking his lips. He could name one woman that he'd call as beautiful as the sea. Then again, he might compare her to it, if he were drunk. Because she was the ocean, truly. Sweet tempered and calm followed by raging energy and quickly turning tides.

He sighed and threw both hands behind his head.

"Where next?" he asked the pair of women, who lay side by side on the other side of the fire. They seemed to consider it a long while.

"I want to see the mountains," Kati offered after a long silence.

"Then we will ride through the mountains," Lancelot said, not bothering to open his eyes.

"On the way to your island," Alda said firmly, and he glared at her out of one eye.

"We've plenty of time," he said. "There is more to see-"

"I don't know you, brother," Alda said. "I know this man that you want me to know, but I don't know you. And to know you, I would know those that you miss."

"I miss many things," he said easily, going back to his silent study of the darkness behind his eyelids. "It would take more than going to Briton to know them all."

"Then I will settle with knowing who you think about when you stare off like you just were," Alda teased. "What a woman she must have been to have you watching the ocean like a child watches a sweet."

"Quite a woman," Kati agreed, and there was a light, teasing tone to her voice. "Or man."

"He does talk about that Arthur often enough," Alda agreed, and Lancelot stayed silent under their giggling and insinuations. They'd teased him mercilessly about it since the day on the dock. "I'd like to see such a man."

"I'd like to see any man," Kati half joked. Lancelot let them have their women's words while he stared up at the sky. It was a clear night, and the stars were bright. He could see the difference in their lay from where they usually could be found, when he'd looked for them in the past. It was perhaps the most unsettling thing about not being on Briton.

The next morning, the pair of them were up long before he was, chasing the waves and collecting small shells from the sand. They'd a large bag between them when they returned to their campsite.

"What will you do with those?" he asked, amused at the way the women had so diligently gone through their pick.

"What won't we do with them?" Kati countered. "There were only large clam shells in the lake, and they were of use. I'll find something." He sighed and added the bag to the back of his horse. It was no longer his warhorse but an over qualified pack mule. It had been the best way though, given that only one could ride at a time and he hadn't wanted to leave either woman to walk alone.

He let them pick their direction, not in a hurry to do much but cross the mountains before winter set in. They had a month still, and it could be done easily, but he hoped by the time they reached the coast winter had sent it well enough to keep them from sailing.

**-RP: Burned-**

Dagonet sat uneasily in his chair at the round table. It was odd, sitting there with so few chairs. The rest still lined the walls except for Lancelot and Galahad's, which sat in the middle, awaiting their owner's return. A new one had been added that morning though, and it sat unused. Dag stared at it darkly as the rest of the knights trickled in. Tris, remarkably, was the last, and he came through the door in a stiff legged walk.

At least, Dag observed, he wasn't the most uncomfortable of them all. Arthur had called them to the Round Table just a half hour earlier. Gawain was already seated when Dagonet had arrived, and the lion knight had not heard why they'd been called. Bors joined them not long after, and the big man had blustered about it for a good ten minutes before Tristram appeared.

"S'matter, scout?" Bors asked, voice harsher than he'd probably intended. "Growin' bored?"

"There is no more to grow," Tristram answered, easing into his chair in the way that he always did. He leaned back, balancing one foot on the table and the chair on its back two legs. Still Arthur did not appear, and after a good long while the knights resolved themselves to their own distractions. Gawain was flipping a knight from point to handle, watching the play of light along the edge of the blade. Bors had rested his forehead on the table and fallen quickly to sleep. Tristram still reclined, tossing an apple into the air repeatedly.

Dagonet watched them all in turn, wondering how long it would take before-

"Eh," Tristram called to Gawain, drawing his own knife from a sheath at his leg. He held it up for Gawain to see, and the other knight nodded, eyes sweeping across the room quickly to settle on a knot in the wood of the far wall. They'd used it in the past for such things, and in a moment, Gawain had let his knife go, buried a few inches off of the warp in the wood. He groaned at the miss and turned his attention to the table top. Tristram's blade hit the wall with a solid thunk, and Gawain forced himself to look up and see exactly how badly he'd been beaten.

"You missed," Gawain said before Dag had even processed the fact. Tristram did not miss. Tristram was infuriatingly steadfast in his ability to his his target with nearly any projectile, and yet, there his knife stuck, several inches further from Gawain's.

Dag stared at it for a long moment before letting his eyes slide to the scout, who glared darkly at the wall and slumped further into the chair.

"You missed?" Gawain asked that time. "Did you not see the-"

"I saw it," Tristram said, dismissing the question and their game with a dark glare that Dagonet did not recall seeing on his face in many months.

"Are you well?" Dagonet asked quietly. Tristram simply ignored him, and the room fell into a deep silence.

Arthur was met with that same silence when he finally entered the hall.

"My apologies," he said as he sat down, hands clenched on the table top. "There have been many draws on my time that I did not anticipate."

"Stop posturin' 'n jus' tell us why we're here," Bors said, head still down on the table, eyes closed just as he'd been in sleep. Dag frowned at the big man. He'd thought that he'd been too quiet for sleep.

"The woad tribes are uneasy," Arthur said at last, eyes studying the table. "It has been nearly a year, and with the threat of the Saxons forgotten, they've grown uneasy."

"Let them be uneasy," Tristram said, straightening up. He was sharper in that moment than he'd been since he'd entered.

"That's an easy thing to say when they're in the far north, but impossible when they're hiding in the trees to either side of the wall," Arthur said, looking up them to meet all of their eyes.

"Threatening what?" Dagonet asked.

"Nothing yet, but Merlin does not tell me such things without reason," Arthur said. Dagonet nodded and stared down at his hands. There were only so many battles that they could continue to fight, and now that there was open movement from one side of the wall to the other, it would be impossible to even know which ones to expect.

"How many of these tribes are mutinous?" Gawain asked.

"Less than the majority," Arthur said as if it was a hopeful number. Bors laughed darkly at that and sat upright, rubbing at the red mark in the middle of his forehead.

"S'wat'da we do?" Bors asked, holding both hands out in a careless gesture. "Kill'em all as they come through the gate?" He took Arthur's glare without blinking, and Dagonet had to agree with him. There was no way to distinguish between friendly and unfriendly woads. They all moved through the outpost as though the wall was no longer there. That had been a stipulation in the joining of their people. Their land was their land, and they would be free to move throughout.

Peace was all Arthur had asked in return. No violence within the outpost and no violence against his people outside the outpost unless they were defending themselves. There had been dark news of a small family attacked on the road earlier in the day as they'd ridden for the outpost with their wares. A mercantile family that was bringing wares for trade with the outpost. They'd nothing but an empty wagon and a murdered son to show for it. The father was calling for blood, blue blood, as he'd claimed at the village center.

"There has been a death," Arthur said finally. "A merchant's son, on the road with goods to trade."

"That violates your treaty," Gawain said immediately. He sat forward, on the edge of his chair, arms braced against the wood. That was Gawain's ready posture, Dagonet knew. Ready to speak. Ready to fight. Ready to do something foolish.

"It does," Arthur said uneasily. "Merlin claims it was not one of his, but the father saw blue painted men, and the arrow in the body is of woad make."

"Easily replicated," Tristram offered, but they all knew that the Merlin admitting to rebels in his own midst and a woad arrow in a man's back meant only one thing.

"We will allow Merlin to police his own people, but should be ready in case anything further occurs. Until such a time when the murderer is found, we will conduct daily trips to and from all major port cities to assure that those who wish to seek shelter or trade here are guaranteed safe passage."

"There's six major ports and four of us," Gawain said, eyes sliding over all of them. "Only one can be made easily in a day."

"I will conduct the daily ride to the closest," Arthur said easily, dismissing the immediate reaction from his knights with only a wave of his hand. "This should take only the morning. I can still complete my duties here and we will cover one of the ports. The roads to two meet only a day's ride out, and Lark has offered to meet you at the crossroads."

"Lark isn't-"

"Lark is difficult to like, but she is trustworthy," Arthur dismissed Dagonet's concern immediately. "And we have little other choice."

"That still leaves one port to cover and another that we can only reach every other day at most. That is if we do not stop," Tristram said, the impossibility coloring his voice. Dag glanced at him quickly, agreeing but not quite as resigned to defeat. Lark and two others would have an easier time, only completing part of the journey, but the other three...

"Merlin has offered one of his trusted-"

"No," Dagonet said firmly. "What purpose would that serve? We're doing this patrol to eliminate the threat from the woads. Putting one on the task is not possible."

"I only have so many men," Arthur said, voice resigned.

"I have someone," Tristram offered. "He needs a purpose anyway."

"You trust him well enough?" Arthur asked, and Tristram nodded. He had no doubt that Arthur knew who he'd spoken of, as the commander had asked after Dinadan often enough over the past few months. Dinadan was not the boy that Tristram remembered, but the pair enjoyed each other's silence and the comfortable familiarity of someone from home.

"Then we have all of our roads," Arthur said firmly. "It will be difficult for you all, but I don't expect this to go on longer than one week." The knights agreed, resigned to long hours in the saddle with a few hours of sleep. Dagonet sighed as he stood up, not entirely sure he believed that anything involving Arthur and the woads could be resolved in a week.

Two months later, Dagonet fell asleep in the saddle, falling to the ground with a grunt that shook him awake.


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter Twenty-One: These Scarred Lands**

Lykopis waited three days in the port city she'd come in and out of over and over again throughout her years until she finally gave up and purchased passage with the last of the coins at the bottom of a ruck sack. She hadn't expected Galahad to still be there, as they'd been further south and there were ports closer.

Izi had raved about the ocean. The fire haired girl was more alive on the water than she had been on land, letting the gruff sailors show her how to spit with the wind and the best way to get from forward to aft without getting in the way. While she wasn't as comfortable as Lark had been-climbing masts and on sails-the girl burned with energy, consuming what knowledge the deck hands had to offer and not afraid to attempt to use it, often incorrectly.

Lykopis did the work she'd done on every other passage with more deft and familiar hands, but it was the scarred beauty that the men took to like bears to honey. Without her mother's coddling, the girl stopped thinking on what she couldn't do and learned different ways to prove that she could.

Half of the crew was smitten by the time they'd made land, making her promise to visit the port as often as possible, as they'd be there every other week until the first real solid freeze. Izi had laughed and agreed, and when they set foot on Briton for the first time, the independence that she'd learned stayed with her.

Unfortunately, the self consciousness that came with being scarred and around new people did not remain vanquished, and she'd insisted they didn't need any more supplies and that the road would be all the better at dusk.

They'd been on the main road for hours before they encountered the rider. Aithon was in one of his moods, refusing anyone but Lykopis on his back, and so the pair of women walked on either side of the great destrier. Lykopis couldn't blame the beast. He'd been locked up for the voyage.

It was Aithon that heard the hoofbeats first, his black tippe ears darting forward and his head shooting upright. He'd danced sideways, eyes trained on the darkness until a rider came through. A blue painted woad, he dismounted quickly enough to startle Izi, who hadn't seen such paint in the past.

"Not on the road. Not at night," he said in broken English. Lykopis's eyes flickered back and forth from the man to Izi and finally to the trees lining either side of the road. "Come." The man gripped Izi's arm and pulled her toward the treeline, as if he was trying to hide her amongst the trees. Lykopis let the man drag her a few feet before Izi stopped him, digging her heals in and tugging back.

"Let me go!" she said, nearly ripping her hand from his grip.

"Castus want no one on road at night," he said, gripping her other arm and tugging harshly on the pair. Izi stopped fighting immediately, a pained little sound escaping her lips.

"Arthur will forgive me," Lykopis said, gripping the man's elbow tight enough to draw his attention. "He won't forgive you if I have to kill you."

There was a quick glint of metal as he released one of Izi's hands to touch his hip. The dagger that came forward was a simple thing, short and unadorned but sharp enough to cut open a belly, and that was all that Lykopis saw before she'd reached out and tried to grab his wrist. The cold bite of metal ran from her hand up the outside of her forearm to the elbow. A hot flood of blood ran down her arm even as she twisted and pushed him backward, distancing him from herself and Izi.

"Get on Aithon," she commanded the red haired girl, who stared wide eyed at the blood that dripped in a quick pit-pat-pit against the grass. Izi obeyed without question, and the destrier let her up onto his back without so much as a nip to her shoulder as she passed. The man stared at the pair of them, his face grim as his eyes went to Lykopis's forearm.

"Arthur's wolf," he said, eyeing her critically for a moment. "Dead wolf."

He had come forward in the way that all woads seemed to move, without thought to their own well being and head first. She'd see it so often over the years that it was almost too easy to side step and bring her clawed hand up and slashing across his shoulder. He hissed at her, one hand pressed against the three slash marks there.

"Need to do better," he said to her, flipping the dagger into his uninjured hand and coming forward again, side stepping with her this time. He caught the claws against the dagger, the blade sliding down to the metal bracing at the bottom. It twisted sideways, taking her arm with it. Without an arm to block her face, he slammed his closed fist against her temple once before she could free the claws and step out of his reach.

"Ride!" she shouted, and Aithon obeyed even if Izi did not. The grey beast was lost to the darkness, and Lykopis smiled at the man as he muttered in a language she couldn't understand but had heard countless times in the past. His eyes followed the horse until it disappeared in the darkness, and he came forward again.

Lykopis moved to meet him, the claws ready for him, but the world shifted at the last moment, something like a fog flashed in front of her eyes, and in the next moment, the pair of them were falling to the ground, the dagger and claws between them.

**-RP: These Scarred Lands-**

Tristram was bored.

That was all there was to explain it.

He wasn't home sick; that was for damned sure.

He was a liar. He knew it, and he was starting to think that everyone else knew it. That didn't stop the constant downturn he felt at the corners of his mouth or the annoying way that his drawing arm shook when he drew his bow. He knew his bow, and he knew himself though, so the tremor was easily accounted for before anyone else noticed. It only rankled the back of his mind.

The rides weren't helping. He'd spent the better part of three months just riding circuits between one of the ports and back. Most days, there would be no ship, and he could find a tree and lean back with a horse blanket and catch a few long hours of sleep.

Some days though, there was a new merchant or pilgrim every day and he spent long hours on the road, pushing his horse to make the trip in one day. The Woads made things worse. Dissent was building in the people, even those loyal to Merlin. Arthur was a good man, but they didn't see what he could do for them, even with Guinevere married to him.

A child in her belly might better things, and even Gawain had quietly made the suggestion to Arthur around the round table. Their commander had made a non-commital voice in the back of his throat before dismissing them only five minutes into their meeting.

Even Guinevere had made sounds about children underfoot, and though it was less a year since their marriage, Tristram had to wonder if perhaps something was wrong. His own uncle had a similar affliction, and it had been a quiet thing they did not discuss. He remembered it though, because his father, though younger, inherited his grandfather's lands and horse trade.

It was not such a difficult thing to get around though. Tristram knew of several brown-eyed and haired women that would lay with Arthur for the proper motivation. Guinevere's clothing could be altered until the child was born, and then, the woman could be paid to disappear. He hadn't raised the question to Arthur yet, but if the Woads grew any more up in arms about their king's lack of connection to the land, something was going to have to be done.

He shook the question from his head and let his mare pick her way down the road. It had been a long few days with little rest for either of them. He sighed and tried to relax into the saddle. He's seen Lark leading a group back a few weeks ago. She'd lain down flat on the horse's back, letting it carry her along the road. His mare could do such a thing, but he couldn't ride without the saddle, and he had little will to try and bend himself back over the leather.

The faint thrum of hooves caught his attention, and he sat forward, drawing his bow and pulling an arrow taught against the string. A grey shadow came through the darkness, lit by moonlight, and he very nearly let the arrow fly. It was a shock of red hair he noticed first though, and so he stayed his hand.

"Eh!" he shouted. "Stop!"

The great creature pulled up short, nearly sending its rider to the ground. Up close, only a few paces in front of him, he could easily make out the shaking form of a woman. It wasn't her that drew his eye though, but the coat of the horse she road and the familiar size of the animal.

"Aithon," he murmured, slipping from the saddle and redrawing the bowstring taught. "That is not your horse."

"If you're with that other man, I swear, I will gouge your eyes out before I die," the woman on the horseback said with such conviction that Tristram believed her.

"That is not your horse. Where is its master?" he asked, ignoring her threat and taking a step forward.

"And I'm to tell you? So you can go help him kill her?" He wasn't sure what happened then, but he had released the arrow and drawn another before he'd blinked. The woman held a hand to her cheek, fingers searching the flesh there for blood only to come away clean. A few of her red curls fell to the ground.

"I will not ask again," he said simply, words clipped with something he would not admit existed in his stomach.

"What's her name?" she asked, chin thrust upward in a quiet challenge.

"Woman, I am not a patient man. Where is Lykopis?" The words were hissed and harsh, he knew. The slip of a thing could not have taken the horse, even if she'd snuck up on his wolf-a task he knew well enough to be difficult.

"Down the road," she said immediately upon hearing the name. "A rider came out of the darkness and said we weren't to be on the road. He grabbed me and..Where are you going?"

"Get to the wall. Tell them I need Dagonet!"

"Wait!"

He ignored her as he pulled himself up into the saddle, burrying his heels into the mare beneath him, silently apologizing for the treatment. He would brush her out later and ride a different horse for a few days, but for now...well.

**-These Scarred Lands-**

Gawain was the happiest he had been in months. Perhaps even years. He was tired, his legs ached from the saddle, and he had a raging headache from the babbling and worrying of the people that walked around him. But he rode beside his brother again, and the pup was far more an old dog than he had been when he'd left.

Gawain had just made the port when a ship came into harbor. He bemoaned the white sails that appeared on the horizon even as he sagged to the ground against a post and closed his eyes to nap. It would take hours for the ship to dock and unload, and he planned on spending those hours sleeping.

He dozed until a hard boot kicked him unceremoniously in the side.

"Lykopis make land before we did then?" Gawain recognized the voice nearly immediately, and shot upright, tackling the man around the middle and sending them both to the dirt in a mess of limbs and curses. Gawain laughed until he found himself in a head lock, tapping half heartedly at the elbow around his throat.

"Give," he hissed with the last of his breath, and Galahad let him go. "It is good to see you, pup!"

"You act as though you didn't know I was coming," Galahad said, sitting upright and pushing Gawain off of him. Gawain let himself be pushed and eased onto his backside in the dirt, staring at the younger man.

"I didn't," he said, the smile not leaving his face. "Arthur will be glad you're back."

"If Lykopis didn't tell you we were on our way, how did you know to be here?"

"I've been here every day for months," Gawain said darkly. "The Woads have been attacking travelers on the road. Arthur has taken it upon himself to send us out to the ports and escort travellers back."

"All of you?"

"It's only Arthur, Bors, Tristram, Dag and myself. Lark and Dinadan have been helping, but we only just cover the ports."

"Well, I will help once I get my people to the wall," Galahad said easily, as if it was a simple solution.

"Your people?" Gawain asked, taking in the thirty some men and women that had gotten off of the ship with Galahad.

"My village," Galahad said with a smile and half-shrug. "They needed somewhere, and I didn't think Arthur would mind." The smile fell and the shy boy he remembered surfaced. "I didn't think this through. There aren't enough-"

"Galahad, Arthur will take all the help he can get," Gawain cut him off. "The second barracks were finished for the Woads, but since things have worsened, Arthur has asked them to live outside of the fort."

"It's that bad?" he asked.

"Reminds me of before the Saxons," Gawain confirmed. "Only this time, we aren't allowed to kill them when they attack us."

"We'd best get back, then," Galahad said, turning to look at the rag tag group that was slowly putting itself together. Gawain stood back and watched as Galahad collected them all together, helping some onto horses or sledges. A woman stood away from the rest, silently watching as they gathered themselves. She was a hard thing, he could tell even from such a distance. She reminded him of Lykopis, and for a moment, he'd thought the woman was the wolf. There was an odd grey speckling to her that Lykopis never had though.

"Is she a problem?" he asked Galahad when he neared, leading his horse with an elderly man atop it.

"Anaxilea?" he asked, turning over his shoulder to look at the woman Gawain indicated.

"Woman's more trouble than she was worth!" the man on the horse said. "But she gave me this man, so I will complain little!" He reached down and clapped Galahad on the shoulder with a shaking hand.

"This is Dnaestre," Galahad said simply. "Father, this is Gawain." Gawain froze on the word father. He hadn't thought they'd have parents anymore, and that Galahad found his both warmed his stomach and made him uneasy. Did his father yet live? His mother had died years before he was taken, but his father...

"Gawain!" the man shouted the name, startling him from his thoughts. "A man I've wanted to meet." He found his hand stolen and clasped heartily for such a wrinkled old man.

"It is a good meeting," he said, eyes flickering to Galahad. "Then the woman is-"

"My mother," Galahad said simply, though his tone lacked all of the affection and reverence he'd used when he'd said father.

"A good meeting for later," Gawain offered, and Galahad only shook his head.

"We should get on the road," Dnaestre said. "The villagers are tired, and most of us haven't had a good meal in days."

"There is food at the wall," Galahad said and pulled on the horse's reigns to get it moving. "You have to wait for any more ships?"

"If I wait for anyone else, we'll have a parade from here to Hadrian's Wall," Gawain joked, untying his own horse and pulling himself sluggishly into the saddle. "I can't wait to see Arthur's face when we bring all these people in."

"You're not seeing anyone's face," Galahad said. "You look like you haven't slept in days."

"Two," Gawain confirmed. "Dag's been worse. I think he's been sleeping in the saddle instead of pushing his horse."

"I'm sure Bors is taking that well," Galahad said, walking alongside Gawain's horse as he led his own. The people followed behind them, sporatically spread out along the road.

"He's had Vanora to distract him, but she's angry enough about it for the both of them." Gawain paused a moment. So much had happened since the pup had left that he sorely knew where to start. "He married her."

"While I was gone?"

"While you were gone," Gawain confirmed, smiling down at the younger man. "I think Vanora finally decided that she might as well marry him; she was stuck with him, afterall. Can't hope all her children are someone else's."

"Lancelot might disagree," Galahad said, and the pair of them laughed a long moment at that. "I'd have liked to have been there."

"You would have enjoyed it. Where is our First Knight?" Gawain asked. He hadn't seen the familiar head of dark hair in the crowd.

"He didn't wait at the port."

"Of course he didn't wait." Gawain sighed, staring out at the road in front of them. The morning sunlight made everything seem soft and hazy, the rays splintering in mist. "Maybe he will find his way back to us."

"Arthur's the only one that could put up with him!" Galahad said, nodding his agreement. The whole while they'd rode, the people had followed soundlessly behind them, somber and tired. Dnaestre had sat in the saddle, swaying with each step the horse took, as if he wasn't quite settled there. Still, the man hadn't fallen out, but the way his left foot fell limply out of the stirrup told a dark story.

He let himself be drawn into the lull of morning and ignored the quiet murmurings that had started up behind them about the walk.

**-RP: These Scarred Lands-**

Tristram was not panicking. He'd just ridden hard for the better part of two hours before reaching the port, turned and gone back the other direction, eyes searching the grass and brambles beside the road the best he could in the early morning light. On the first pass, he'd only been able to see what was in the road, even with the half full moon hanging overhead.

The morning light made it easier to see, and he was almost back to where he ran into the red haired woman on the road. For a moment, he wondered at what he might have missed. Was she just not on the road? Had he just not seen her yet? Was the woman lying?

He was a better judge of character than that, though. Or at least he had been.

He rounded a curve in the road, drawing his mare up quickly. A big black horse stood there, cropping at the grass on the edge of the dirt pathway. He slipped from the saddle even as his mare took her last few steps to slow herself. There was a woad saddle on the animal's back, and as he pressed his fingers against it, it was cold. His eyes slid down one side of the road, through the thick grasses, and up the other, locking on a brown slump of something just on the edge of the treeline.

His boots caught on the brambles and grasses, ripping and tearing at him as he ran toward the shadowed form. It was a large man, slumped forward on something in the grass. As Tristram gripped his shoulder and rolled in, the body was cool to the touch. Something sluiced and resisted slightly as he pulled the man over. Four long bone claws slipped from deep in his stomach, and as he dropped the body on its side, all he could see was blood.

Blood on his hand from the man's shoulder.

Blood on the four wolf claws.

Blood on a grey hood.

Blood on her.

He crouched down, bloodied fingers going to her throat, waiting, pressing, waiting. Something faintly thrummed beneath his fingers, but he couldn't tell if it was his own pulse or hers. There was a dagger at her hip, burried deeply enough to protest being drawn from her flesh. Blood came forward sluggishly from the wound.

"Wolf," he growled, brushing the hood back from her face with her hair. Blood from his fingers made little lines against her forehead there, where he'd touched her. Her skin wasn't as cold as the man's had been, but there was no response when he tapped the side of her face. Something hot swelled in his stomach, just beneath his ribs, and his fists clenched. For a dark moment, he thought about drawing his knife and turning it on the corpse beside him. It would do little good though, and he reached out a shaking hand to heave the woman from the grass.

She was a slight creature, but any body was a heavy body, and he slung her over his shoulders to his mare. She danced sideways a moment, eyes wide and ears pricked forward at attention. She calmed quickly though, and let him lay Lykopis over the saddle.

"Bradan!" a woman's voice shouted, and Tristram flinched. He hadn't heart her in the wood. He'd almost not seen her as she charged through the brush, eyes wide with fury, a short blade held high above her head. She'd have severed him from shoulder to balls if he'd had let her. He took his bow from across his back without thought, knocking an arrow and drawing back. The fletching protruded from the woman's left eye a half moment later and she fell, face first in the grass.

He thought about taking the black horse for himself, but Lykopis would not stay in the saddle on her own. He pulled himself up into the saddle, securing her over his legs. The mare was used to such things, had been for many years, and she picked her own way on the road, avoiding dips and easing around turns in a smooth canter.

"You'd best wake up, wolf," he said, one hand on her back. She did not answer.

As he rode, he could not get the image of the woman out of his mind. She'd come from the wood, he'd reacted in a moment, and in the next, an arrow was through her eye socket and into her head. A killing shot. A shot he had made easily in the past.

His arm had not shaken.

**-RP: These Scarred Lands-**

Arthur had just finished his own ride to the near port and was handing his horse over to a stable boy by the gate. A shout took up behind him, by the guard, and he turned. A large grey destrier came through, one he recognized in a moment. A woman fell from the back of it as the horse reared and danced, afraid of the guards that surrounded him.

"Easy!" he shouted, and the guards backed off. The woman skittered backward like a crab, avoiding the horse's hooves. She'd a shock of red hair, and one wide, green eye stared out at him, wide with fear.

"Easy," he repeated, holding both hands out toward her in a gesture he hoped would calm her. It worked, as she stopped trying to back away and stood.

"This is Hadrian's Wall?" she asked, eyes flickering between him and the guards.

"This is, lady," Arthur said.

"Then you know her; you know the wolf. You've got to help her, please," she said, tears welling in that one green eye he could see. Her hair had fallen down the other half of her face, making her look more misserable, if it were possible.

"I know Lykopis, and you ride her horse. I gifted her that horse when she left here months ago," he said, nodding. The woman relaxed, shoulders slumped and head hung.

"She told me to get on the horse. I thought she'd get on with me, but she couldn't get away. And Aithon just bolted when she shouted at him."

"Aithon is a good horse. He was trained to follow commands," Arthur said. "What happened?"

"We got into the port last night, and I wanted to keep moving. She said she knew the road. She said that it was peaceful here now," the red haired woman paced back and forth, hands thrown out at her sides. She turned back toward him, one shaking hand coming up and pushing her hair from her face. The warped scar and white eye made him flinch, and in a moment, she'd dropped her hand, shaking the hair back into her face, staring at the ground. "She said that you made peace with the people here; that we'd be safe on the road. We didn't think-"

"You should have been safe. My knights have been riding the roads to and from all of the ports every day. You should have passed one of them, in the night."

Her head shot up at that, nodding.

"A man with a bow," she said. "He knew her. He knew Aithon."

"Did he have marks here?" Arthur asked, ghosting his fingers across his own cheeks. It wouldn't do for Tristram to go, not with the way he'd been lately, and not if Lykopis was in trouble.

"I don't know; it was dark. He was angry, when he saw the horse. He asked me where Lykopis was. He knew her," she said. "He said to get to the wall, that he'd need someone here...Gods, I can't remember the name."

"Calm down," Arthur said, mind racing. If Lykopis was hurt, and Tristram had sent the woman ahead, he'd have asked for a healer. Their own healer, Dagonet, was on the road. The woad healers had all left with the uncertainty of their alliance. There was the fort healer, but Tristram trusted the man little, and he often preferred to suffer until Dagonet could look him over.

"Call the surgeon!" he said to one of the guards, who nodded and ran off into the village. Arthur gripped Aithon's reigns and let the stable boy take the horse.

"You're going to help her," the woman said firmly, staring him down. "You've got to help her."

"We will," Arthur soothed, and took the woman's elbow. "Let's get you settled." Arthur sighed as he lead the woman toward the barracks. He'd settle her in one of the rooms and see that the surgeon was ready. He quietly hoped that Lark or Dinadan returned before Tristram. At least that way, there would be someone to distract the scout. Distraction. Arthur chided himself at that. They'd have to knock the scout out, if Lykopis didn't come through the gate on her own power.


	22. Chapter 22

AN: This story is completely plotted out. The story will end roundly on chapter twenty-five, and I would be lying if I said that I was ready for this piece to end. With that being said, I hope you enjoy this chapter. Sincerest apologies for he wait on this. I was distracted by the hell that has been falling into The 100 and all of the one shots that infested my mind.

**Chapter Twenty-Two: Flesh Worm**

Dagonet had been riding for the better part of the morning. He'd had no one waiting for him at the port, and with the chill that had seemed to settle upon the land that morning, the port master had declared an end to their season. He'd never been more happy to see a port closed in his life.

His mare picked her own way, and he hadn't the energy to argue with her. She could have taken him right into the ocean, drowning the pair of them, and he wasn't sure he'd have found it in him to care. This would be his last return trip, and while he felt guilty that his brothers would be riding in the south of their island for some time yet, he was more than relieved to know he'd sleep in a bed that night.

Because he would make it in not so many hours to the wall. Two, really, if he kept pace, and he intended to keep pace. He hoped to make it by lunch. The promise of Vanora's stew sharpened his mind, and he patting the horse's neck as she slid into a slow canter. The cooler weather was good for the animal, brought with it an energy that was nearly limitless, and Dag felt more than ready to capitalize on that energy.

The animal carried them onward, slowing occasionally and on very rare moments, taking up into a gallop, relishing in the whip of wind. Normally, he kept his horses below a gallop outside of battle, as he was a big man and wouldn't want them to accidentally slip something in their backs, but today...well, there was stew and a bed waiting him.

He'd reached the wall by the time the sun was at its peak, and he eased from the saddle, handing off the reigns to a waiting stable boy. The child danced back and forth from foot to foot, as if he was waiting to be acknowledged.

"What?" he asked, trying to keep the growl from his voice.

"King Castus has asked that I send you to the knight's infirmary as soon as you return," he said, not meeting Dagonet's eyes. The big knight sighed and nodded.

"Take care of the horse, and I will tell him you passed on his message immediately upon my arrival," Dag said. The boy's head shot up, and he nodded, a smile on his lips.

"Yes, Sir," he said, taking the reigns with vigor.

Dagonet went to the infirmary as he'd claimed he would, immediately, though with great self depreciation. He'd thought about abandoning the order in favor of his bed, but he'd never refused Arthur anything. It wouldn't do to start now.

He found Arthur standing in the hall, face creased with worry as he stared at the door. Their commander had blood dried between his fingers, and Dag looked him up and down for any injury.

"What is it?" he asked, stepping toward the door.

"Tristram brought Lykopis in nearly an hour ago," Arthur said uneasily. "The surgeon is in there with her, and Tristram fled not long after."

"He left her?" he asked. "Does the surgeon need anything?"

"Probably not, but I know I would-"

"It is done," Dagonet said firmly, laying a hand on Arthur's shoulder for a moment before slipping past the door, shutting it behind him.

The woman lay on a cot, nude and covered in blood. His eyes quantified and qualified a slash at her forearm, deep and bleeding but nothing life threatening. The second was a stab wound, low on her pelvis, with the surgeon reaching inside with sutures and a scrap of fabric, trying to staunch the flow. There was too much blood, and he crossed the room in a few steps, taking up her forearm and demanding supplies to a woman that fluttered around the room, collecting what he'd ordered.

The forearm closed quickly, and by the time he'd finished, the surgeon was done probing deep in her low abdomen and was sewing the wound closed.

"That will be it," the old man said, straightening up with a crack of his back and a sigh. "If she lives through the night, it'll be infection that takes her."

"Only if we are not diligent," Dagonet countered. The surgeon's sad eyes turned toward him, and Dag felt something settle low in his stomach.

"The blade pierced the intestines," he said simply. "I have closed them, but..." The surgeon did not need to finish the statement. Infection would have already spilled out from the guts into the surrounding flesh. There was little they could do but keep the would clean, give her fever reducing herbs and wait.

"Tristram will not like to hear that," Dag said simply.

"The woman may yet prove me wrong," the healer offered. The old man settled down at the end of her bed. "Get some rest." Dag nodded and left, finding Arthur still standing in the hall. The Commander's eyes flickered down over his bloodied hands.

"She is alive," Dagonet said simply. "Who did this is not?"

"Tristram did not say anything before he left," Arthur said. "I am concerned that he will not think before he acts."

"Do you know where he's gone?" Dagonet asked.

"No." Arthur leaned back against the wall with a sigh. "If this was woads..."

"If the wolf dies, Tristram will start a war," Dagonet said. Their scout was a stoic man. He did not share his emotions or his moods, but he would put them all back to where they'd started if Lykopis died.

"If this is what an alliance with them means, then I might let him," Arthur said. The Commander looked as exhausted as Dagonet felt.

"Go to your bed, Arthur, the surgeon will notify us if anything changes." Dag saw the argument in his eyes. "Tristram will not be found unless he wills it. Go, sleep and gather your strength for what is to come."

"Only if you do the same, my friend," Arthur said, giving him a wry smile. "There is a woman that rode ahead of Lykopis. She has been put in one of the extra rooms in the new barracks. She should be kept aware of her friend's status."

"It will be done."

"And Merlin will need to be-"

"Arthur, go, rest and when you have woken, the wall will still stand," Dag said, pushing the commander down the hall. He went with little complaint then, and Dag found himself sinking into his own bed not long after, exhaustion chasing him into the darkness of his dreams.

**-RP: Flesh Worm-**

Lark knew she was a bloody creature. She knew that her nature, the make up of her heart, was darker than anyone at the wall was comfortable with. Yet, as she brought the latest group through the gate, the stable hand smiled at her and told her of the latest news. She would not have to ride out until the late hours of the night, and while she'd intended to find herself someone to spar with, the murmurings of the wounded drew her to the infirmary.

The physician was slumped into the corner, his old eyes watching his patient. Lark didn't particularly care for the wolf one way or the other. She didn't particularly care about a lot of things, but staring down at the woman, arm and abdomen wrapped and sweating through a fever, it sparked something in her stomach.

"It'll be infection," the surgeon said, voice firm and low. "The bleeding has slowed enough now that this will be slow."

"A bad way," Lark said with a nod. "Not the way of a warrior."

"No, I suppose it is not," the surgeon said. Lark left him sitting there, disappearing back through the gait and out into the woods, a stolen bow and clutch of arrows in her hands.

She was not a huntress. She'd never had to sneak up on her prey in the woods, minding her footing or any other manner of sound that she might make. She was a gladiatorix. There was little delicate about her kind, but even she managed to creep through the undergrowth long enough to bring down a boar. The creature roared as the first arrow struck, and it had taken two more to bring it down.

Its underbelly was thick, but it split easily as she raked a knife through it. Organs strewn across the ground around it, Lark sat back and watched.

Scavengers swooped overhead, not willing to land and feast, as the last two of their kind were now dead beside the boar, torn open similarly. She'd sat there the better part of the day, and the sun was setting quickly. She lit a fire, settling down beside it and continued to wait.

The next morning, she woke and crossed to the corpse. She poked at the organs, pushing them this way and that, sharp eyes studying and cataloging before crossing back to the fire. She chased off several foxes and birds through the day. Another night passed without word from the wall, though she'd seen a large group make their way up the road, lead by Gawain, who would have no doubt wondered where she'd been.

By the time the sun was high on the third day, she crossed to the corpse and smiled at what she saw.

**-RP: Flesh Worms-**

Gawain had to admit that things would have been easier had Galahad not locked himself in the infirmary after they arrived. As it was, he had settled Galahad's people in one of the barracks and had been playing the middle man between Arthur and the new people. While their Commander had not welcomed the additions with open arms, he had nodded grimly, ordered the new arrivals fed and taken care of until they could get on their feet, and then had pulled Gawain aside to ask that he find Tristram.

After two days, Tristram had not resurfaced, and the fever burning through Lykopis had progressed. The wound on her arm burned with infection, and there was a thick, pungent smell from the abdominal wound. Galahad would know the signs of impending death as well as any of them, and her brother would not leave her side.

He had spent the better part of the morning riding through the wood, trying to recall Tristram's scouting loops with little luck, when he found Lark crouched low over the corpse of a boar.

"They have you hunting?" he asked, slipping from his mount. The smell of decayed flesh caught in his nostrils, and he coughed as he neared. "What is this?"

"Flesh worms," Lark said simply, picking up the little wriggling creatures from the animal and dropping them into a small pouch with a small piece of meat.

"Yes, but why are you-"

"In the arena, we had no medicine," she said simply. "Nothing to treat infection. No herbs or poultices. The older gladiators always saved any fresh meat they could get for the flies."

"Why?"

"Because they do not eat healthy flesh," Lark said simply. "They eat what is dead and infected, leaving behind the healthy."

"How long have you been out here?" Gawain asked curiously.

"Nearly three days," she said. "It would be better after another few hours, but I don't want to wait any longer."

"This is for Lykopis," Gawain said, the answer dawning on him suddenly.

"They will keep the wound clean until it has healed." She stood quickly, taking with her the pouch of maggots, now full and writhing.

"Surely the surgeon would have done this if it would have helped," Gawain called after her, grabbing his horse and leading the beast along after him.

"The surgeon had a poultice on it when I left, but the flesh was bad. He's given up."

"Anything at the end, I suppose," Gawain said, following her back across the field and through the gate. He took care of his own horse, not wanting to be witness to how the little half inch maggots were to be used. He had little luck of tracking down Tristram, and if the wolf was going to pull through, Gawain didn't want to be the one to tell him different.

He'd spent the better part of the last few days running about, and he wearily made his way to the tavern, easing himself into a bench seat and waiting for a serving girl to bring him food. A woman bustled past him, and he tried to catch her attention, but she was gone, off to tend to some other patron. He sighed and waited, eyes flickering about for any woman that he could find.

A red headed barmaid-new, if Gawain was any judge-walked past, and he grabbed her elbow gently. "A bowl of whatever the house has made up," he said. "And ale, if you'd be so kind, love." The woman considered him a moment, a frown twisting the only half of her face he could see.

"There's the server," the woman said, voice light and airy but laced with something like annoyance. His eyes darted to the serving woman that stood in front of him, one eyebrow raised in challenge. She was a familiar face, and he let the woman's elbow go with a smile and muttered apology.

"That one's as sharp as one of your axes," the serving wench said. "She's been in and out of here for the last three days, and I've never seen her sidle up to any man here."

"A challenge then," Gawain said, patting his thigh. The woman settled on it with a sigh and an arm around his neck. "Tired, love?"

"Always," she said, running her fingers through the hair at the base of his neck. "It's a venison stew today. Vanora's at her wits end with the trade situation as it is."

"We'll get it settled," Gawain said simply. "Best be off before Van see's me taking up your time."

"We're slow," the woman said, but she rose easily. "With you knights off on your patrols and the woads not coming in anymore, we're overstaffed."

"We'll not be going out much anymore," Gawain said. "Arthur has ordered all the port masters to keep their passengers for a week. We couldn't keep this up much longer anyway."

"I'll bring your food and you can rest."

Gawain relaxed into the bench, head against the table top until a bowl was placed in front of him. He let the savory smell lure him upright and ate with a cotton headed distraction until a thunk across from him drew his attention.

"That woman is a savage." Galahad had plopped down on the bench opposite him. His face was red tinged and angry, with deep bags beneath his eyes.

"You saw Lark and her maggots, then," Gawain said, pushing what was left of his ale across to Galahad, who drained it in one long drought.

"If the surgeon doesn't manage to kill her with inaction, Lark will with those damned-"

"Galahad," Gawain said firmly, cutting the rant off at its source. The younger man fixed him with a firm stare that softened by the moment.

"I'm sorry."

"It is alright to worry, but Lark is trying to help. She has experience with wounds that the surgeon might not have." Gawain stared at him a moment before Galahad nodded.

"Has anyone found Tristram?" Galahad asked, stabbing at a bowl of stew that was placed in front of him.

"No. He won't be found unless he wants to be found."

"He could have at least stayed at the wall. Arthur needs the help with everything."

"People deal with problems differently," Gawain said. "He's never dealt with death well."

"She's not dying," Galahad said, glaring over his spoon at Gawain. The lion-knight shrugged a shoulder. "And he's the best with death than any of us."

"Just because he kills with more ease than you doesn't mean that it doesn't hurt him when the people he cares about are...wounded." Gawain bit off the word dying. Lark might come through yet, with her flesh worms. They sat there for many hours, picking at food and avoiding their problems, if only for an afternoon.

**-RP: Flesh Worms-**

Tristram stood over the hunched form of a woad. It was a woman, but that mattered little. It wasn't like you could tell through the blood.

He'd spent the better part of the night wandering up and down the road, a cloak up over his head, sword hidden beneath the layered swirls of fabric. It had taken until the early hours of the morning, but he'd met his purpose. A woman and a man had come through the trees, feigning a story about their child, laying in the brush. When he'd stepped off of the path, the man had gone for a short dagger at his calf. That had been the last thing the man would ever hold.

Tristram glanced down at the severed hand at his feet. It had gone a sick grey within a few hours, and after two days, it was picked at by insects that had laid their larva in the flesh. The owner had long ago gone silent, staring at the appendage with a single-minded fascination.

The woman had been far more forthcoming after the first day, but Tristram had not been forgiving. He stood up and sighed down at the corpses. This was his work, and if it served its final purpose, then it was worth whatever punishment that Arthur or his god chose to dole.

"Tristram?" a voice called, startling him from his reverie of the dead woman. He turned, nearly dizzy at the quick movement, to see Dinadan, sitting astride his horse, staring at him with a confused quirk to his eyebrows.

Tristram was not a shy man. He had never done anything he'd tried to hide. So, with blood from his elbows to his finger tips and smattered across his front, he walked toward the other man. Sharp eyes flickered from him to the two dead behind him.

"This is going to start a war," Dinadan said, though there was no judgement in the tone.

"They already started one," Tris countered. "Lykopis is dead." Tristram had left her with the healer, and even the old codger had looked at him with a sad shake of his head. Tristram had been unable to stay. Several days had passed, and there was no way that the young woman had held onto life in that time.

"No," Dinadan said firmly. Tristram wasn't sure if it was the denial of the woman's demise or some other darkness upon the world, but Tristram didn't have time for it.

"Yes," he said, the word acid on his tongue.

"Then you have somehow learned this since I left Hadrian's Wall," Dinadan said. "Because last I saw her, she was unconscious but alive." He paused a moment. "And you'd best get back to her before that changes for good or ill."

Tristram denied it to himself for a moment. The girl had been on death's door. Tristram was not ignorant of wounds or the healing of them. Gut wounds festered and burned the victim from the inside out. He'd seen men twice the size of the wolf die from a seemingly superficial blow to the abdomen.

"She is healing?" Tris asked once he allowed himself the glimmer of hope that meant she might survive. If he was a greater man, he supposed, he might have felt guilt over the two dead behind him. He was not a greater man, but he was not so much less that he didn't give them a fleeting glance.

"Better than yesterday," Dinadan said with a nod. "Dagonet was surprised, but the Lark had use after all."

"The Lark," Tristram said. It wasn't a question. It was simply a statement, the cementing of a debt into his mind.

"Galahad is as pissed about you not being there as he is about the maggots that are saving her life right now," Dinadan said, his lips quirked up in a mischievous grin that Tristram nearly recognized from their youth.

"The Pup is back as well?" Tristram had had enough of the comings and going around the fort. He was not a man to say hello and goodbye.

"With half a village and Lucifer herself." Tristram vaguely recognized the Christian name, but it did not spark any particular memory in his mind. It mattered little though, because there was blood trying between his fingers, a name whispered from dying lips, and a woman he'd abandoned.

He did not relish the idea of returning like a kicked cur under the eyes of Arthur and the rest of his knights, but it was better than not returning at all. The ride back to the wall was quiet, and for the first time since Tristram saw the man alive, he thought that perhaps Dinadan was his brother again.


	23. Chapter 23

Lykopis was back in the field of shadow. Ghost grass tickled her bare knees, the soundless wind sending the blades dancing. Everything was varying shades of grey, even her own hands as she held them out in front of her. Before, she had only been in the grassland for a few hours. This time, she'd been alone for longer than she could count. It had been more than a week, surely. There had been shadows, grasping along her arm and hovering around her lower abdomen. She could remember the cold cut of a blade there in the before, when everything had color.

Now, she had no pain other than the throbbing sensation in the back of her mind that reminded her she wasn't supposed to be there. She was grateful for that pain. It was the only thing reminding her that she had to live. Before there had been whispered voices to call her back to the living. This time, the grassland was completely silent. She'd loosed her own tongue and screamed once, just for good measure, but there was no sound out of her throat.

She'd taken to walking through the grass field, always in the same direction, toward the sun that never seemed to rise or fall but was always stuck somewhere in between a dusk and a sunset. There was no real light, not in the realm of grey, but it was a lighter ball of color, and she walked toward it for a very long time. Her bare feet should hurt her, she knew. If she looked down, she could see the darker grey stains along them from where sharper bits of grass had cut into her skin or where pebbles had bruised flesh. Nothing hurt in the grassland though, and blood had no color.

There had been a shadow beside her for the last several hours, maybe even a day. It had never wavered, and it was more dense than the other shadows had been, more solid. Once, she thought she could hear a whispering from it, but it had been a trick of her imagination.

Still, there was no reason for her to hurry back to that shadow. She thought that maybe there was someone waiting for her, someone relying on her for strength and direction. She didn't think those someones were the same person, but she couldn't place names for either, so she kept on walking in the grass.

**-RP: Wolf Moon-**

Tristram had not been shocked to see Lykopis still breathing, but he would not have been shocked should he have found her otherwise. As it was, Galahad had shouted at him for the better part of an hour before storming out of the infirmary. Tristram had not left in two days, and while Lykopis no longer burned with fever, she did not wake up. The wound on her arm was healing well. It had stopped weeping long ago and the flesh had returned to pale milk. The wound on her low abdomen was healing more slowly, but for all intents and purposes, it shouldn't have been healing at all. The maggots had done their job, and Tristram could have kissed Lark when she came in to replace them the first time.

He leaned back against the support beam in the infirmary, arms crossed against his chest, legs aching from standing. He'd been there for hours, but before that he'd been sitting for hours. Next he might try pacing the length of the room, just to annoy Dagonet. Dag had been in and out over the past two days, and every time, he had a deeper and darker glare.

"Eat." Tristram glanced at the door. Gawain stood there, holding two bowls. There was a canteen hanging off of his elbow. "Do not fight me on this."

"Friendly as a woad, you are."

"The woman that came in with Lykopis is a terror," he said, voice laced with annoyance. "She has been pacing the halls, and when she isn't pacing, she's glaring at me across the tavern as though I've caused her some injury."

"Eh, women," Tristram offered, but his eyes were still on Lykopis. Women indeed. His seemed determined to beat him to the grave even before he was willing to admit she was his.

And she was his. If anything had ever proved anything to him, it was his reaction to nearly losing her. There were two dead woads and a country on the brink of civil war because he'd thought her dead. Then, he'd seen her yet living, the hood off of her face, the cloak removed and replaced with simple linen. She was small. She should have been weak, yet...Yet she had crossed a continent for what she claimed as hers. She had hidden in the trees for fifteen years amongst the woads for what was hers. She had watched over them all. She had drawn blood and shed blood for them. She had delivered him apples when he had done everything to die but take his own life.

She had already claimed him as her own, just not in the way that he was considering.

His mind should be on other things. He took the bowl from Gawain with deft fingers.

"How is Arthur?" he asked.

"Enraged." Gawain had a small smile on his face at that. "Honestly, he's tired. Lancelot still hasn't returned. Winter is upon us, and if he doesn't return within the fortnight, he will not return until the spring, if then. Merlin promises peace from his people, but more and more woads appear in the forest every day wearing war paint and carrying weapons. You keep your vigil after declaring war. Galahad brought in a flock of useless women. Dagonet drives himself ragged. Bors is lost in Vanora, and neither notice that Dag is trying to stay away from them all the while their wondering why he's missing so often from their lives."

"And you, the saint, not bringing him any problems." Tristram knew Gawain was observant, had since they'd come to the island together. There really wasn't another term to describe the lion-knight.

"And me, bothering him every other hour for details on this war that we're going to be waging," Gawain amended.

"It will not come to that," Tristram said. He didn't think it true, but it was important to think, at least for now. They were only a handful of knights with now nearly one hundred villagers to protect against an entire people. As fierce as they all were in battle, there would be no coming back from that fight, not for any of them. "How are the new arrivals settling in?"

"You mean Galahad's clan?" Gawain asked, a smile on his face. He liked the group well enough. They had some skill, if not in battle, and it was easier for them to assimilate than Gawaing might have thought. "A few of the women have taken up work at the tavern. Some have been out hunting. Others have some skill they've put to use within the village. Most are dutiful. It will be good if we can make peace."

"Others?"

"Galahad's mother has been difficult. She doesn't have a skill outside of battle, apparently, and there are a handful of women that she has trained that are similar."

"We can use them, if the time comes." Tristram didn't see the downside.

"She's spent most of her time out in the woods," Gawain said, stressing the last word as if it was important. It was.

"The pup will speak with her," Tristram argued. "As his mother she wouldn't-"

"She would," Gawain cut him off. "She's going to be a problem. Merlin speaks of her with Arthur as if she were a shadow sweeping through their lands. He claims that he has seen her kind before, that there are some among them that had been her kind, once upon a time."

"And what kind is this?"

"Amazons," Gawain said, shrugging one shoulder. "I don't understand it, but Arthur claims that they will be trouble. "He claims that the people are uneasy because of the balance we have here. We number so few and yet one of ours is king. Anaxilea hasn't been helping with that. Guinevere has been trying to quiet them, but one woman isn't enough. They want one of their own on the throne, if not now, then after Arthur."

"Then they have nothing to fear," Tristram said. It made little sense to him. One of their own would sit the throne after Arthur. Guinevere's son would be of Briton as much as she was.

"A little over a year and a half and yet there is no woad heir," Gawain said, eyes slipping away from Tristram. "There is talk that she can't carry a child, that something done to her in that estate to the North was more permanent than she'd realized."

"This is the rumor?" Tristram asked. She hadn't been injured in such a way when they'd found her, but that didn't meant that a wound had not already healed.

"There are rumors about Arthur as well," Gawain offered. It wasn't an usual thing, but it was something they would not speak about, even if it were true. Tristram wondered at the poor luck of Arthur suddenly finding himself without his first knight to plant children. They looked enough alike that no one would question an heir's legitimacy.

"She still sleeps?" Tris startled at that. Following Gawain's eyes to Lykopis. She did still sleep. It had been two days since he'd returned. Her fever had lessened. Her color had improved. Her wounds knit together well. Still she slept. Tristram was a step away from shaking her.

"Sleeping is better than dead," Tristram said instead of the frustration he'd have liked to have vented.

"It does me little help," Gawain said darkly. "The firebrand she brought has something particularly terrible against me, and I'd like at least to know what I've done."

"Eh. She has more important things to deal with when she wakes," Tristram said. He had a list of things for her to do when she woke. Like learn how to parry a thrusted dagger.

"You might not want to be here shortly," Gawain said. "Her mother mentioned visiting her this morning."

"Let her come," Tristram said. He'd yet to meet the woman that Dinadan referred to as Lucifer, but he'd heard enough tales from Din and Gawain and Dagonet to last him. He'd known warriors in his life. He'd known women. He knew how to deal with the two; it all came down to deciding which she was at the moment.

"You're either brave or stupid," Gawain said, the shadow of a smile on his lips. "You've always been stupid though, so-" Gawain huffed out a breath as he dodged a dagger tossed just over his shoulder.

"Prove your cock and stay until she arrives," Tristram challenged. He knew that Gawain would laugh him off and disappear. None of the knights seemed to have the intestinal fortitude to stick around when Anaxilea was close. Gawain did not disappoint, and not too many moments later, Tristram was alone again.

He pushed off of the support beam and sat down on the small stool beside Lykopis's sick bed. He'd been standing long enough, he supposed. Besides, she seemed to move more with someone beside her, and movement meant wakefulness.

"You'd best wake soon, wolf," he muttered under his breath. She didn't look much like the wolf here, asleep and without her pelt or claws. She looked like a little girl, just a little-

"Gods, she looks like death is upon her." The new voice startled him, and in a moment, he had his last dagger out and in hand.

"Tristram!" It was only Galahad's voice that stopped the dagger from flying. He turned, and proped up on Galahad's shoulder was a mountain of an old man, wrinkled and bent wiht age, but at some time was probably as large as Dagonet.

"That'd teach us to sneak up on a scout!" The man was smiling, bright eyed for someone so old. Too animate for a sick bed.

"Father, this is Tristram," Galahad said, giving Tris a pleading look that the scout had never seen from the pup before.

"The scout!" The big man said, reaching out a hand even as Galahad eased him into a stiff backed chair. Tristram took the offered hand briefly and firmly. "A good meeting. I am Dnaestre."

"Tristram," he said, nodding briefly before rising and letting Galahad sit by his sister.

"Have you been injured?" Dnaestre asked, looking him over with a critical eye.

"Tris and Atanea were friends before we returned home," Galahad said, stumbling over the word 'friends'. Dnaestre quirked his good eyebrow at that, considering Tristram a long moment.

"Not worth whatever you think you'll get out of it, lad," Dnaestre said. "Trust me, I fought her mother for a son for nearly ten years."

"A man doesn't fight his woman," Tristram said, and from the darkening on Galahad's face, it was the wrong thing to say. Either it was the words of claiming or dismissal, but Tristram couldn't bring himself to care. "And I have never known an Atanea."

"A man does what he needs to have a son!" Dnaestre said, voice still almost too friendly. He ignored the rebuke about his own daughter's name. "Roman ways have infected your mind, but spend some time in your homeland, and you'll remember the way things are." Tristram ignored the flare of annoyance in the pit of his stomach. There were things that he remembered from his people. There are things that he did not. There was no question about the treatment of his mother in his mind. Instead, he ignored the questing eyes of the older man and stared intently at the bed.

"Has she been awake at all?" Galahad asked, the dark look disappearing from his face.

"No." Tristram had no desire to speak, and had it been anyone else in the bed, he would have left. He'd been gone long enough seeking revenge for a crime not yet finished.

"Stubborn creature since she was born," Dnaestre said. His voice had lost that easy happiness. "She looks like her mother at that age." The room fell quiet, and Dnaestre set his jaw and stared blankly at the wall. Tristram supposed it might be different, comparing his wife to his daughter in the context of how he'd treated them both.

"She looks better today," Galahad countered.

"Gawain was here earlier." Tristram watched Galahad's head snap up. Dnaestre seemed to pull himself from his own mind.

"Now that's a lad I want to talk to!" Dnaestre said, attempting to rise slightly on his good leg. He failed and was quick to fall back to his seat. He was an agreeable man, Tristram admitted to himself. Had he held his tongue about the wolf, then he might have liked him.

"Lykopis's mother said she was coming here," Tristram said, watching the darkening of both father and son's face. Game.

"Anaxilea hasn't been here since we arrived," Galahad countered.

"Gawain might be wrong." Galahad ocnsidered Lykopis and Dnaestre a moment. Set.

"I'll return after dinner," Galahad said. He helped Dnaestre to his feet. Match.

Tristram was not a bad man, but he was not above being less than a good man.

**-RP: Wolf Moon-**

Lancelot was pouting. He knew he was pouting. Alda knew he was pouting. Even Kati knew he was pouting.

He'd been dragging his feet for the better part of a week as they road steadily west. Rome was a few days ride to the north, and he'd been trying to convince the women that they needed to see it before moving on to Briton. Alda had been unwilling to listen. Kati had not been far behind.

_"You said that winter would be putting the ports out of commission soon," Alda said. "If we go north to Rome, even for a few days, we'll be stuck on the mainland for the winter."_

_"There's no rush, and you don't know if we'll get back here again. With your advanced age, you might end up dead before we get back to Rome." She knew he was teasing, that it was the last desperate act of a man trying to avoid something._

_"Well, then, that must make you a grandfather by now," Alda said, hands on her hips. She fixed him with a firm stare, jaw tight and lips scowling. She studied him for a moment before deflating. "Oh, Lot." Her bluster went out like a snuffed candle, there in a moment and gone in the next._

_"Don't, 'Oh, Lot' me," She'd taken to making that noise every time they brought up Briton and he used his substantial wiles to avoid the topic._

_"I don't understand why you don't want-"_

_"I served fifteen years of my life on that island, Alda. If you were kept prisoner somewhere for that long, would you want to return?" Even Kati, who had been playing with his horse, fell silent._

_"I think, brother, that if you were truly a prisoner there, you wouldn't have stayed as long as you did and you wouldn't stare off as you do when you think of it."_

_"I-I don't-" His tongue was frozen. Never before had he not had a smile and a witty quip to make, and yet, as he stood there, staring at her soft face, he had no excuse, no way to deny her words._

_"Let's go," Kati said, leading the horse toward them. "I want to see your Briton. I want to see this hell that has you so distracted that you'd rather fight with your sister than with me." She gave him a smile and tossed the reigns at his chest. "Besides, you've promised me young strapping knights that are yet unmarried."_

_"Alright," he said, shaking his head against the smile she sent his way._

Alda had been a force to be reckoned with over the past three weeks. She'd driven them long hours throughout the day, but with one horse, things weren't exactly quick moving. Lancelot had been dragging his feet, and he'd taken them to the furthest port he could recall passing on the way through the first time. Not that they had to know that. They'd find out soon enough, when they reached the port in three day's time only to find the docks frozen.

Or, that had been the plan.

Kati could catch crabs as far as he was concerned. The quick lipped woman had gone out exploring in the early morning, before Lancelot had woke, and while he'd ghosted the coastline, he'd not gone far enough away from the smell of salt and the sea. She'd followed the sea to a small port, and had used her wiles and charms to find passage to Briton-the last passage of the season, or so she said as she told Alda. Alda, who had looked at him with knowing eyes and swatted the back of his head.

Which was what lead him to the belly of a small sailing vessel in the cold spray and a quickly approaching Briton, a Briton that he had no desire to return too so quickly and that he missed more than he should have.

"Seems a place to be, this island of yours!" Lancelot peaked up from the hammock he'd sequestered himself inside. Alda and Kati were sleeping, and most of the crew were in their own hammocks below deck.

"A land more like a woman I have never seen," Lancelot answered.

"Beautiful?" the sailor asked. "Don't seem like much from the water."

"Beautiful. Deadly. Annoying and riddled with ways to hang yourself with your own tongue." The sailor laughed at his answer.

"A land I'll avoid, to be sure. Makes a man wonder why everyone seems to be flockin' it like gulls."

"And who is everyone?" He sat up the best he could, a feeling of unease blossoming in his low abdomen.

"A village not so long ago, if'n gossip's believable, but that's not so unusual as the Romans."

"Romans?" He was out of the hammock and on his feet in the next moment, crossing to the other man. "What Romans?"

"Oh, they're sneaky enough, wearing rags 'n carryin' bows, but they're Roman as any other. Hold'emselves different." The man gave Lancelot a sideways glance. "You one of them Romans?"

"Sarmatian," Lancelot said firmly. "And Rome has no business on this island."

"Seemed to have. Was enough of 'em. They kept talkin'bout a false king. Thought the Romans had left these parts."

"They had," Lancelot said. There was only one king of Briton, and Lancelot had more than a small invested interest to see him survive. "How long ago was this?"

"S'been goin' on for months," the sailor said, uneasy in his hammock.

"How long until we make landfall?"

"Today sometime, given the wind's held." He fiddled with a length of netting he'd been repairing. "Gonna have trouble when we make dock?"

"That depends," Lancelot said. He turned to look at the two sleeping women he'd been keeping a silent vigil over since they left port. He'd returned home sooner than he wanted, later than needed, it seemed. In through quick steps, he was climbing the ladder to the deck and staring out over the bow of the ship, waiting for land to come through the darkness.


	24. Chapter 24

AN: I said twenty-five chapters, but after going back and fleshing some things out on re-writes, this is going to be more like twenty-six or twenty-seven. Obviously, this isn't ready for an epilogue next chapter, so...Anyway, if you're liking Wolf Moon and are interested in reading more of my work in the KA fandom, The Memory of Water is a new piece I'm working on that has two chapters at present.

**Chapter Twenty-Four: Sandstone Heart**

Alda and Kati slipped along the path ahead, taking in the landscape, so green and different from their homeland. It had just stopped raining, and the morning air smelled of it still.

"You called this hell," Kati called back to him as he walked the horse. "I see no demons here."

"Truely? I see two before me, demons sent from hell itself to torment the last of my days." He smiled at the gesture that Kati made back at him. No matter how he had drug his feet, how he had delayed and pouted, he loved Briton, just as Guinevere loved it. Perhaps for different reason, though. He loved the people upon it. He-damn him-loved Guinevere and Arthur, Gawain and Tristram, Dagonet and Bors. He loved Vanora and her brood. He loved Kati and Alda as they pushed him along the path toward Hadrian's Wall.

That did not stop the dis-ease in his stomach or the wary way he watched the tree-line. He felt spied upon. Felt uneasy and disgruntled. He could nearly hear the woads in the trees as they walked.

"Kati!" he called as the young woman raced ahead, spying some new manner of plant she wanted to ask about. She was a driven thing, though, and she ignored his call. He urged the horse on more quickly, catching up to Alda as she slowed to walk beside him.

"You are ill at ease, brother," she said, giving him a curious look.

"I spent fifteen years at war on this island," he said. "And someone watches us even now."

"I've not seen anyone since we left the port," Alda said. "You are being paranoid. Can it be so bad, returning to your knights?"

"Can it be so bad, having such a sister?" he asked, hoping she would rise to the challenge and distraction.

"It can," she said. "Because it can be so bad to have such a brother."

"Alda!" Kati called, running toward her with a handful of small blue flowers. "Look! these would-"

"Get down!" Lancelot shouted, pulling the girl toward them and on the far side of the horse, where Alda stood. An arrow skimmed in front of the great beast, landing in the weeds. It was only the sweet disposition of the animal that kept it from dancing up on hind legs. His swords were free from his back in a breath, and he was slipping through the weeds and into the tree-line, meeting the man that emerged with quick blades. An arrow found purchase in his shoulder and another high on his thigh even as he cleaved the man's head from his shoulders.

"Lot!" Alda shouted, running toward him, but he held a hand up, gesturing her back toward the horse. She did as beckoned, and he slowly backed up to the road, right arm hanging limp at his side, holding a useless weapon. His left leg barely held his weight as he walked, and the blood that bloomed up around it was bright red. No one further came from the wood, and Lancelot gave the man one last glance before turning his back on the forest. No new arrow found home in his back, and that in itself was wrong. Woads did not fight alone. They also didn't have the blonde hair of the man he'd felled. With a grimace, he sheathed both blades.

"That does not look good," Kati said, eyeing the arrow with wide eyes as he gripped it and broke it off, close to the flesh. She flinched as the shaft fractured the first time. When the second arrow snapped off, she turned away.

"It isn't," he said simply, letting Alda fuss over him a moment. "Up in the saddle with you."

She complied, and even after Kati was seated behind her, she looked down at him with confused eyes.

"It is a two hour walk still until the Wall," Lancelot said, lips turned down in a frown. The arrow throbbed in his shoulder. "You will ride ahead-"

"We aren't leaving-"

"You will ask for Arthur while giving my name, and he will meet me with a horse." He kept speaking, even as the pair objected. "I will be on the road, as far as I can get. Do not dawdle."

"You should ride, we can lead the animal up the road," Alda said sternly, but there was a resignation to her tone.

"And jar each wound as I went?" he asked. Truly, it was the better option for him, but it meant that they would be out on the road longer, unprotected. He had no thought that he would be able to protect them should another woad-or Roman-come through the trees. "Go!" he shouted. The mare danced sideways, and did not leave until he slapped its backside. Kati squeaked as the animal lunged forward, wrapping her arms around Alda as they went. Lancelot nearly laughed in the middle of the road as he watched them go.

He took a couple, hesitant steps before stopping, turning back toward the dead man, and sighed. If you couldn't run and couldn't defend yourself, he supposed, the best thing to do would be hide. A coward's way had never been his, but he had always been more cunning than anyone gave him credit for.

**-RP: Wolf Moon-**

Tristram rubbed sleep from his eyes as he sat upright. It had been a long night, and he had lolled to sleep sometime after dawn. No one had come and gone in that time, or if they had, he hadn't heard them. The sun was high enough to no longer be coming in through the window, and as he stretched, he noted the empty breakfast bowl on the side table.

Freezing, he glanced back to that bowl, scraped clean with a spoon.

"I ate your breakfast."

He turned, looking toward the voice, recognizing it instantly but needing the confirmation of sight.

"To be fair, you slept through Lark bringing it and calling you a sad excuse for a scout." Lykopis was sitting upright, a thin white cotton shift in place and a blanket across her lap and legs. She looked uncomfortable and held her left arm closer to her side than was normal, but she was awake. His voice was lost to him.

"I can call Vanora to see if she has more," she said, figeting uncomfortably under his stare. He sat there, simply staring at her. Her hand came up to the back of her neck, seeking out the cover of a mask that was not there. She was uncomfortable sitting there, and whether it was from her undress or him, he didn't care.

Because she was awake.

"You look like hell," she said after a long pause. He supposed he did. He'd spent days thinking her dead and several more at her bedside.

"You look alive," he said after a long pause.

"I'd better," she said. He couldn't help the little flub of affection in his chest at that. He rose to his feet then, staring down at the slip of a woman that had shadowed his steps since he was nearly a boy, angry and trying to kill himself without drawing a knife. He picked up the hood and the claws from the table beside him. She didn't look like herself without them, and he weighed them in his hands a moment before crossing to her bedside and kneeling down beside it. The hood slipped over her head easily, and he took her hand, slipping the claws over her left arm, securing it over the bandages there. Even as the claws were in place and the leather bound, he could not bring himself to let her hand fall back to the bed.

"Tristram?" she asked, voice flat. The hood was pulled up over her face in the next moment. "Someone is dead."

That froze his tongue a moment.

"Eh?" It was more of a grunt than a question, but it was all he could manage in the moment.

"I am not stupid, scout," she said, pulling her hand away and tightening the claws against her knuckles.

"Galahad was coming back to Briton with his village. Did he not make it?" The question was quiet, bitter almost. "I should not have left them." She was glaring at the wall, refusing to meet his gaze even as he tapped her leg.

"Eh," he said, pinching the skin of her ankle beneath the blanket. "Look at me, woman." He waited impatiently as her jaw ticked beneath the hood. "Lykopis."

"Tris-" Gawain came through the door, slamming it open as he went. "Lykopis!" His frown disappeared for a moment. "Good to see you awake. Tris, two women just came in on Lancelot's horse. Arthur's riding out as soon as I return. Could use a scout." Tristram glared at the lion-knight before nodding, slipping to his feet and following him from the infirmary. There was too much to be said to speak now, and it could wait until he returned. Arthur would not."

"Stay awake, wolf," Tristram said, glaring at her through the hood. She still stared sullenly down at her lap, unwilling to meet his gaze. The door slammed behind him.

**-RP: Wolf Moon-**

Arthur was sitting impatiently atop his horse, Lancelot's own tethered to the saddle horn. Gawain had insisted that he wait for Tristram, and when it was suggested, he saw the value. Now though, that he'd been gone a whole-he thought about it half a second-three minutes...Well, he wasn't a patient man. He didn't claim the virtue when his men were wounded and waiting for him. Neither was his sister, apparently, because the woman had insisted that he give her a horse. The second a stable hand had the beast in front of her, she was in the saddle and hauling her friend up behind her. They would slow them down, but he wasn't above leaving them behind.

He was not a good man. God would weep.

He didn't much care in that moment.

"Where is your man?" Alda asked, tongue sharp.

"It's been minutes, lady," he said, though he was asking the same thing in his mind. He needn't ask too much longer though, as in the next moments. Tristram and Gawain rode out of the stable, Dagonet behind them.

"I said find Tristram, Gawain," Arthur chided as he spurred his horse around. "Not collect the entire company."

"Do you see Bors and Galahad?" Gawain asked, burying his spurs in the horse beneath him. It bolted from the gate, the rest not far behind him. Arthur did not wait to see if the women kept pace. He did not bother even to check for anyone but Tristram, whose mare easily outpaced the rest. When they'd rode in, the scout had a sour look upon his face, one more that would have been summoned by hearing of Lancelot's return and injury. The thought was gone from his mind in a moment as they rode hard down the dirt path. It wasn't long before he pulled the horse back hard. It reared up beneath him, and even as his body rose in the saddle, his heart fell through into the ground.

There in the middle of the road, a dark form lay on its belly, head turned away from them. A cloak had pooled up over it's head, but it was dark, familiar in a way that was agonizing.

"Lot?" Alda's voice was soft, but the knights were so quiet in that moment that it was clear. One of his swords was pushed through into the ground, as if he had tried to stand with it but failed.

"Oh, Alda," Arthur could hear the other woman comforting her, but he did not care. His world was broken, ruined and in the road. The woman slid from the saddle, breath coming in quick panting gasps as she crossed toward the body.

"Well, don't touch him!" A voice shouted. The brush beside them moved, and from the brambles and trees stepped Lancelot, limping heavily on his wounded leg. The relief that flooded him was like nothing he had ever felt. It was quick to be replaced though, by a low burning in his gut that he could neither place as anger or lust. Alda had no such confusion as she launched herself at him, angry and striking at his unwounded shoulder with tiny fists.

"Alda!" The other woman was out of the saddle in an ungraceful slide and trying to calm the woman even before Arthur dismounted. In his defense, he wasn't sure he knew he was moving until he had his First Knight pinned to a small sapling, back firmly against the bark where he couldn't escape. It was only after he heard Gawain's uproarious laughter that he realized he was kissing the man. Still, he only pulled away hesitantly and turned toward the group. His knights were all laughing, even Tristram who had looked so stoic on their ride out was smiling. It was Alda and her friend that worried him with their slack jaws and blank stares.

"Alda..." Lancelot's voice was soft, uncertain, and it was so unlike him that Arthur felt bad for the breadth of a moment.

"Ha!" The other woman shouted. "I told you!" She was beside them in three quick steps, laughing and poking at Lancelot. "A man! And after everything. 'God, Arthur, if your god can save her I swear I will convert and return to torment on your island until the day I die.' You're such a liar, you bastard." She was laughing then, poking him so hard that he squirmed out from between Arthur and the tree, using him as a shield. It was only after a quick escape attempt that sent him to the ground in pain as his leg collapsed that they remembered he was wounded.

Kati retreated to the horse, where Alda was already in the saddle, studiously ignoring her brother with a dark red blush across her cheeks. Arthur heaved the man from the ground, helping him up and into the saddle.

Arthur was never more pleased as they walked the horses back toward the wall.

**-RP: Wolf Moon-**

Lark was not an idiot. She also wasn't prone to putting herself out on a limb when she didn't need to. Little did that matter though, as she sat high up in a tree, watching four men far below her. They were dressed like woads, inked with paint the wrong color blue. lt was that wrong color blue that made her follow them. It was the sharp Roman accents that hardened her resolve to stay high up in the branches until either they left or she found a moment to use the dagger in her boot.

As it was, she'd been there a little over an hour, and the sun was at its highest point in the sky. Her legs ached as she crouched there, but it was a welcome thing. She'd grown accustomed to pain over her years in the arena, and she nearly had missed it for the past several months.

She'd missed a lot of things about the arena that she never thought she would.

Like the blood.

Not the look or feel of it, but the thrill of it. The fact that it meant life or death, something so simple as water. She missed having to fight to save her own life, being the only thing that stood between her and the shadow gate of death. A dark look crossed her face as she drew the dagger in her boot and readied the one hidden beneath her arm guard. Two of the men had disappeared off into the wood, and when she could no longer hear them she dropped down from the tree, landing on the back of a standing man and burying the short dagger into the soft flesh between neck and shoulder. He was dead by the time they crumpled to the ground.

The other shouted as she rolled forward off of the corpse. He had a dagger in hand, slashing with it as though it was a longer sword. It was an uncomfortable weapon for him, it would be, as the Romans were never trained to wield them. He died with his own blade between his lips.

She tracked the other two through the wood, and it was a testament of how uncomfortable they were in the trees that she found them. A tracker, she was not, but she could be silent. Silent as she killed the pair of them. Returning to the wall, she felt better than she had in weeks. The peace and silence of the wall had itched at her skin since she'd arrived, and if it stayed as it was much longer, she was going to lose her mind and join the woads. At least they practiced war on occasion.

The area was her safe haven, where she spent her hours to exhaust her body and hope her mind would quiet. She'd not been there in days, and when she slipped into the sand, she found she was not alone. The woman that stood there was at least twice her age, with deep wrinkles around her eyes and corners of her mouth. She held a light blade out away from her, going through different forms in slow, meaningful movements. Lark fought down the laugh as she pulled a park of axes from the wrack. Since she'd had them used against her by Gawain, she'd been practicing with them. The next time he stepped into the arena, she planned to beat him with his own weapons.

The dummy warrior took the abuse silently as she lashed out against it. The woman across the arena stopped her movements, watching as Lark went about her assault. From the corner of her eye, Lark watched the woman shake her head and turn away.

"Hey!" she shouted, annoyance and agitation flaring low in her gut. "S'there a problem?"

The woman's back stiffened, and she turned slowly, face turned down in a disgusted grimace.

"You fight like a child," the woman said after a long pause. "So bad, it's distracting." The thin blade in her hand shifted as she tightened her grip, and years of training exploded in Lark's mind. A challenge.

Sand beneath her feet.

A challenge before her.

Weapon in hand.

An arena—The Arena.

They were fighting before Lark knew she'd shifted her weight. It was a freeing thing, fighting without restraint. The woman was quicker than she'd looked, but still too slow. It was only her form and the freak way she seemed to know where Lark was moving that saved her skin time and time again.

A booted foot caught her ankle, and she fell forward, turning it into a roll and distancing herself from the other woman. When she came up, Lark had a wider smile in place than she'd used in months.

"You fight like someone I knew," the woman said, eyes distant for a moment. Lark did not give her the time to come back to the arena.

One blunted axe found purchase in the woman's stomach, doubling her over, she turned quickly, trying to bring down the other on the back of her neck, a blow that would send her to her dreams, if nothing else. The woman was gone in a step though, turned just enough to miss the blow and land one of her own.

Lark felt the sharp explosion of pain along her rib cage. She'd been wounded enough times to know blood had been drawn and that the blade the woman used was not dulled like her axes. There was a hiss passed her lips before she could quiet it, an angry little sound that ended in a flurry of movement, lashing out with both axes in a wide, arching swing to either side.

She was rewarded with a dull grunt as the woman was tripped up at the knee and sent to the ground.

Lark was a bloody creature.

Once you taught a dog to kill, it did not stop.

The big, heavy axe was high above her head, ready to come down on an aging skull when something heavy slammed into her side, carrying her sideways and to the ground, into the sand. Pinned beneath the weight, she struggled, mind reeling.

Side wound—not damning yet, but if it bled into the sand for too long, she could grow weak.

One weapon lost—the momentum of the tackle had loosed the smaller, more versatile axe.

Opponent much larger than she—troubling, but not deadly.

Closer quarters combat forced—escape.

Escape.

The word echoed through her mind as her free hand scrambled at the sand beneath her, trying to find anything to use as a weapon against—

Eyes flickered up at the face of the gladiator, freezing at the familiar frown. Behind him, only a handful of paces off was another familiar face, one she knew. The sky above was clear and uninterrupted by the banners of the colosseum.

Realization dawned, and with a stinging sliver of self depreciation, she collapsed into the sand of the training arena at Hadrian's Wall.

"Get off of me, Dagonet," she said, staring up at the sky past his shoulder. The weight of him shifted, and soon, there was no sky to see, only the hulking expanse of his chest, neck and head, blocking out the sun and demanding attention.

"We do not train to wound here," he said, voice firm and angry, as it always seemed to be when directed at her. She was accustomed to it by now. Angry voices in the arena. Angry voices outside. She tried to think back to a time when there was someone that wasn't disappointed in her.

"Get off of her, boy," the woman demanded. "We weren't finished."

"Y'are," Bors said, hands curled into his daggers he kept at his hips at all times. "Na'the both'a ya get'tup. Ly's awake, 'n I'm gonna go see m'wolf."

"Behave," Dagonet said as he rose to his feet, brushing sand off of his palms and chest. It clung to him in little waves of nothingness, easily sent to the ground again.

Lark sat up, using the sand as leverage to propel herself to her feet in one quick movement. The woman stared across at her, face serious but not angry at her, as if upset at the interruption instead of the game. With fresh eyes, she looked older than she had before, more sun speckled and grey, as if the world had marked her.

Lark tried to dust the sand from her clothes.

It wouldn't matter much, the sand was already a part of her that would not be shaken.

**-RP: Wolf Moon-**

To say that Galahad was annoyed would have been an understatement. His sister was wake. Lancelot had returned, wounded, and he only found out the both of these facts when he went to see the healer about an ointment for Dnaestre's limp foot.

He'd walked in hesitant and half-expecting to see his sister still unconscious, half-expecting to find her dead, and yet there she was, sitting upright on the bed and carrying on with Lancelot. Lancelot who should have been half a continent away or more. Lancelot, who definitely shouldn't have had two beautiful women sitting cross legged on the end of his bed, laughing and ribbing him as the surgeon put sutures into his shoulder.

He listened for a few moments as Ly spun stories of Lancelot as a young man, growing up and growing into his ambidextrous nature. The women laughed like chickens as she described what she thought he must have gone through when decided upon which had to masturbate with, as if it was the most serious of trials for a teenage boy.

Annoyed and a bit embarrassed at hearing his sister speak of such things, he slammed the door behind him as he left.

"Your sister's awake and this is your happy face?" Gawain asked him as he sat down at the table in the tavern.

"This is the only face I can make when I hear my sister talking about Lancelot's cock," Galahad countered. Gawain choked on the mouthful of water he'd just taken.

"Be happy she's just talking about it," Gawain said after a long pause to regain control of himself. He knew the rise it would get out of the pup, and he couldn't help but press. "There are other things she could be doing with it, now that she's awake and well enough to be talking."

The glare he was given was worth every moment of his own discomfort in the mental image the words conjured. Both from Galahad, and from the scout that had been sitting silently at the head of the table.

**-RP: Wolf Moon-**

It was late by the time that Tristram could muster the energy—that's what he was calling it, damn it, he wasn't lacking the courage—to seek out Lykopis. It was one thing to be there when she was unconscious, sleeping, and unable to laugh at him as if they were children.

It was another entirely to sit with her when she was awake and be the sad excuse for a knight that pined over his unrequited love as she lay in sick bed. At least, that was what his mind had told him since he'd left that morning.

He was not proud of himself.

He was less proud of himself when he found her bed empty.


	25. Chapter 25

Chapter Twenty-Five: Storm Clouds

Lykopis sat in her bed, happy for the first time in years to see the dark haired First Knight. Lancelot was lounged back on the bed beside hers, shirt stripped away and one arm up behind his head. The surgeon was bent over his other shoulder, putting stitches into a small arrow wound. The tip had been long ago removed along with the one at his hip, hidden by white linen.

"Run off by a woman and brought back by two," she chided him, trying to keep the smile from her lips.

"At least I've got a woman," he said, not bothering to hide his look around the room, seeming to seek out something that wasn't there. "Your women seem to have fled you. I'm more partial to the one with the long blonde hair. Of course, she's as ugly as this knight I used to know that had the same mane of hair."

"Gawain'd better be off with Izi," she said darkly, glaring at the knight.

"Izi?"

"A teen-year sweetheart." Lykopis found herself not as annoyed as she ought have been by his eye-roll.

"And that scout of yours?" he asked. "Bad form to leave a woman without a visitor on her deathbed."

"Stop teasing her," Alda said. The woman was seated at the end of his bed with Kati. When the pair had come in, Lykopis wondered if she had the strength to deal with two more women at Hadrian's fort. She did, as it turned out. The pair were annoying on their own, but together, they put Lancelot in his place with an endless ability. "Besides Kati and I, you haven't had any suitors either. Your Arthur hasn't been in to give you a sponge bath."

"Kati would swoon at the site. Best not ruin her delicate sensibilities." He gripped his crotch suggestively and gave the dark haired girl a wicked grin, one that Lykopis had seen time and time again over the years.

"Oh, aye," Lykopis said. "She'd pass out from pity. Such a man only wields such swords to compensate for something."

"And a woman more comfortable in a mask hides from something similar," he said. "Perhaps young Kati can help you with your looks, wolf. Can't expect a woman to learn these things hiding in the woods."

"Lot!" Alda's embarrassed shriek was worth the banter to Lykopis. The girl was red from her ears to her neck, and Lykopis let her squirm for a few long moments.

"I've said worse to him," she said, trying to sooth the quiet wrath of the woman. "I said worse while holding a knife to his throat."

"And while keeping a knife from my throat, I'm sure," Lancelot said, the smile gone from his lips. It was difficult, talking to Lancelot when he wasn't smiling, ridiculing or flirting. The serious weight of his eyes, of the gratefulness there, was difficult to shoulder.

"I only held a knife you your throat once," she said, feeling agitated at the looks she was getting from the two girls. "I owe you another for leaving in the first place. First Knight, Idiot Knight."

"You wound me," he drawled, wincing as the surgeon pulled at a particularly sore place.

"Then I have done my work." She eased herself up from the bed, dangling her feet off of the sides a moment before standing.

"The scout will be displeased to find you out of bed," the surgeon said, still bending over his work. She ignored him as she pulled her hood on over her head. The stretch at her hip was uncomfortable but not painful, and her arm only gave token protest to the movement.

"Wolf!" Lancelot shouted at her as she opened the door. She turned back to him, glaring expectantly out of the eyes of the wolf. "He is not a man of words. He does not do things as he should, but that doesn't mean that he-."

Lykopis did not wait to hear him out. Lancelot's words were lost to the heavy wooden door. She didn't care to hear them, and there was no reason she needed to. Tristram was not her keeper, and there was no reason he needed to sit by her sickbed. She had things to do, like track down the fire haired young woman she'd brought across an ocean and make sure she'd not hidden beneath her scars.

It wasn't difficult to track down the young woman. She'd situated herself in a dark corner of the tavern, half hidden behind a support pillar as she picked at a bowl of mealed oats. She was moody; that much Lykopis could tell from the door. She leaned forward, stabbing at the bowl with her spoon. Across the tavern, Lykopis could hear the tell tale sound of the knights sitting together, already too far into their drink given how early it was. Celebrating, she imagined. All of the knights were again under the protective eye of Arthur Castus. Lykopis had to admit that she would sleep better at night. She was used to the shadow of the forest, the quiet that came in the twilight and the smell of the storms that seemed to constantly wash across the island.

She'd missed the smells of the tavern too, though it was hard to imagine missing it now that she was among it again. She slipped around the edge of the tavern, staying out of the immediate line of sight of the men. Gawain, Bors and Galahad were facing them with the sharper eyes-Dagonet and Tristram-conveniently facing the wall. Izi had chosen her position well, Lykopis realized, because as she settled down into the seat beside her, she was sure that in the shadow of the morning, the woman could watch the knights without being questioned.

"You are hiding at your mother's skirt again," Lykopis said, pitching her voice just loud enough for the girl to hear. She was happy to sit in the silence that followed. At least, in moody silence, she could ignore the throbbing in her side and the dull headache that had started up. She was sure it was colder in the tavern than it usually was, but that was easy to ignore.

"Then leave me to hide," Izi said darkly. "At least when I was hiding at her skirts I didn't have to watch him flirt with every set of tits in the tavern."

"He can't be held accountable for flirting when you haven't told him who you are."

"He made me a promise, wolf." Her voice was small, broken even, in that moment. "He promised to return, and he sits there, happy and free, with no designs to return to the people he left behind."

"So the people he left behind should remind him that he has a home to return to." Lykopis took a steadying breath. She'd run from a similar truth not long into her time on the island. She couldn't take the knowledge that her brother had forgotten her. Except it hadn't been her that suffered, not really.

"That man there was little out of boyhood when he was taken," she said. Gesturing toward the long haired knight with her head, she turned back toward the girl. "I am not an emotional woman, but you are. Think about how it would feel to be ripped from everything you loved, told you would not see it again while you lived because you were going to give your life in service to the people who had kidnapped you. Try to cling to the memory of those people, of the history that you had with them, but then, little by little, you forget the details. You forget what the layout of your childhood home. You forget the way that people in your village interacted. Finally, you remember that there was someone important waiting for you, but you can't recall their face or their name. So you forget them because that hurts less than remembering that you'd forgotten something that important."

She stared down at the wooden grain in the table top. She had had many long and lonely hours to consider why Galahad had forgotten her, and in those hours, she had found more answers than questions.

"I wouldn't have forgotten him," Izi said, but there was a hesitance to the words that meant she had understood. When Lykopis looked up, the girl was staring across the tavern at the lion-knight.

"Come on," she said, rising quickly to her feet. "Go to the stable, and wait there. I will bring him to you." Izi stood hesitantly.

"I don't want to-"

"Yes you do, girl," Lykopis said, gripping her shoulder and pushing her toward the door. "Go." Ly waited until the woman disappeared out the door. "The things I do for promises," she said toward the ceiling. The knights did not notice her until she was nearly upon them, and when they did, it was Bors.

"Wolf!" he roared, rising to his feet and picking her up in a great bear hug, pinning her arms to her sides and shaking her just enough to start her wounds to aching again. "Came t'see ya, but the surgeon said no visit'rs." His face was lined with a deep scowl, one that was true enough to him that Lykopis knew his words to be true.

"Lancelot had his women. The room was full enough, and I needed no visitors." She knew she had thrown a dark look at the scout, but she couldn't help it. Something in her had soured at him since that morning, something that she couldn't quite place.

"Course ya did!" he said, pulling her around and sitting her down in his seat. "Need'ta rest. Bastard nearly killed ya."

"I wasn't so close to death that I need to steal a chair from the elderly," she teased, sliding out the other side of his chair to stand beside Gawain. She laid a hand on his shoulder, squeezing in a quick forceful manner. He flinched beneath her hand, and in a quick side step, she drug her hand across his shoulders purposefully, tugging slightly at the other shoulder. "I'll leave you to your celebration. Galahad, mother is in the stable?"

"The stable? No, why would-"

"I'll find her." She left them there, hesitating a moment at the rear door and sending Gawain a firm glare through the hood. She touched them all so rarely that he'd follow, if only to make sure he hadn't done something to earn her wrath. She didn't need to wait long, leaned against the back wall of the tavern before the lion-knight stepped out into the sunlight.

"What is wrong?" he asked, voice heavy with concern. "Is Lancelot unwell?"

"The First Knight is fine. You are not." He stared at her a long moment at that, as if trying to recall some injury or illness that he had sustained. "I bring you a gift and you snub it like garbage."

"I was given no such gift," he said, shoulders sagging in relief. 'You were found on the road, perhaps it was stolen or still lies in the grass.

"It does not," Lykopis said, and for a moment, she took pity from the nearly concerned look still on his face. "It rode in to warn Arthur of my injury, and it has been hiding from you. It waits in the stable."

"A horse?" Gawain asked, a smile quirking his lips. "I complain about the mare, but she is a good-"

"Izi, Gawain," Lykopis said, cutting him off. "I brought you back your beautiful Sarmatian woman." He stood there for several long minutes, frozen in place as if her words had somehow spelled him still.

"Izi," he said, breathing the name like a prayer. His eyes flickered toward the stable. He stared there a long while before panic crossed his face and he turned back to her. "I forgot her name."

"I reminded you."

"I left her there."

"And I brought her here."

"She will not want the man I have become, Lykopis. The boy she loved is long dead and gone." He was as panicked as the fire-haired girl had been fretting over something that the other would not bother with.

"You remember her?" Lykopis asked carefully.

"Of course," he said quickly. "I had forgotten, for a time, but I can see her face in my mind, and I can remember her pouting mouth telling me I'd done something wrong." His creased forehead softened.

"Did you love her for that face?"

"No. I flirt with the pretty barmaids, and I bed them-forgive me, but you know we all do-but a man does not love a beautiful face." He looked confused for a moment, and it only took a second for Lykopis to realize that she was smiling, wide and without the normal bite of sarcasm that her smiles normally accompanied.

"You are the same young boy who stood up to Romans and made sure Galahad was safe. You do it still, and that is the ignorant boy she fell in love with. Your only fear is that she will reject you upon realizing her own ignorance." His answering smile was something that Lykopis hadn't seen in many months. She could see the man the barmaids whispered about in that smile, the promise of a great man, of one that was sharp witted and soft with his hands. She saw the bravery she knew so very well in the next moment, as he spun with a great running step and disappeared toward the stable.

"Soft hearted wolf," she heard grumbled behind her. Bors leaned against the doorway, watching Gawain's disappearing back. "B'careful 'r ya'll be nothin' but a twitterin' girl, 'n then the scout'll want nothing with ya."

Lykopis turned to face him, pushing the hood back off of her face and rubbing at the headache that beat a staccato against her temple.

"Yer alrigh', wolf," Bors said after a moment, his face creased with that stern worry that he seemed to exude since becoming a father for the first time, all those years ago, as he shouted at a young giant to prove Rome wrong, to grow and learn and live. It wasn't the first seed he planted in Vanora that made him a father; it was the first seed he planted in himself, that first spark of responsibility and love for something outside of himself.

"I'm alright," she echoed. "I deserve peace after this. My good work has been done for the year."

"Fer the rest'a your life, I'magine." Bors chuckled as he reached out and ruffled the short bangs of her hair that she'd cut away on the journey so that she could see. "Non'a us're done, though, wolf. Still gotta work."

"Speak for yourself, I'm doing nothing more for the day but ignore you all." She waved over her shoulder at Bors as she walked away. His wry chuckle behind her was not lost on her ears.

**-RP: Wolf Moon-**

Gawain's hands were shaking. His hands had not shaken once in fifteen years, and yet, as he had first reached for the handle of the stable door, his hand had trembled like a maiden's legs. That shaking hand had frozen his feet and dried up his tongue, and as he stood there, staring at the door, his courage fled him for the first time in his life. It wasn't something that he had known in the past, the sickly feeling of cowardice sliding into his bones and stealing his will.

The knowledge of what the feeling was sickened him, and he stood there for several long minutes, derating the part of him that would run from a girl, from a beautiful red-headed girl with a sharp tongue that had taught him the meaning of courage so very many years ago when she stood in front of her own father and declared she would see a long-haired farmer's son whether he forbade it or not. That girl would have called him a coward and laughed at him until he'd done what was right. He glared down at his traitorous hand, and there, against the wood of the door, it was still.

He smiled for a moment, sighed out the last of the anxiety in him, and pulled the door open.

Inside, the sunlight filtered through the side window, but the darkness made him squint into the stable. Several of the horses swung their heads out over the stall doors, snuffing at the air at their visitor. All but Aithon, and the big beast as as inquisitive as any of them. He heard a soft whisper, float out of the stall Athon occupied, and on quiet feet, he crossed to the stall, leaning against the door. The great dapple beast was laying on its side, head tossed back across the lap of the red-haired woman that he'd seen in the tavern for the last week or two. The woman was speaking sweetly to him, picking straw from his iron-grey mane and running delicate fingers over his nose. the other hand scrubbed at his neck, nearly clumsy in comparison, and it took him a few long moments to realize that it wasn't pale like the rest of her but scarred, the skin pulled taught against her fingers, making them clumsy.

Something low in his stomach bubbled at that. Here was the beautiful woman that he had left to protect from Roman wrath, and while he was gone she'd been injured. Her words were too soft to catch, but the tone of them was familiar, and it lulled him for a moment. She was a stark contrast to the strong, sharp tongued creature that he'd encountered in the tavern, but he supposed she had the right to be. He'd not recognized her, hadn't even though of Izi since before the Saxons. He supposed he deserved the dark looks she'd sent him from across the tavern.

"He is more dog than horse," Gawain said, startling the girl from her soft caresses and coo'd words. Her face shot up, the shock of red hair he remembered tumbling backward over her shoulders. If he thought that he had rankled at seeing her hand, seeing her face webbed at the jaw with delicate white scars enraged him. She was still a creature of beauty, perhaps even moreso now that there was something to lend her face character, to show the strength on the outside that she had always had on the inside, but the fact that this had been done to her burned him.

"As some men are," she said, shaking herself from her stupor. She looked back down to the beast, tilting her head until her hair fell down across the side of her face.

"As some men are," he agreed. Aithon, the traitor, didn't even shift as he opened the stall door and settled down beside her. His legs were drawn up nearly to his chest in the small space, and he had never struggled so with an animal in his life, trying to gain enough space to sit.

"I prefer horses to dogs," she said. "Horses will carry you. They'll protect you in times of war, and yet they will be carefree and loving despite it all." It did not take Lancelot's sharp mind to realize she wasn't talking about the animal anymore.

"Dogs can be loyal creatures," he said, if only to make conversation.

"They can also be fools, chasing their own tails and disappearing into the wood to never return."

"They lose their way home. I've seen a dog wait for it's master in the forest for weeks until they starved to death in the leaves." He drew on what little courage he had left in him and reached out, taking the scarred hand from where it rubbed against Aithon's neck. She stiffened at that, but as he wrapped his hand around hers and kept up the reassuring rhythm against the great dog laying in the stall, she relaxed again.

"You didn't come back," she said after a long silence. Gawain thought for a moment that she might have forgotten he was there.

"I didn't know there was anything to come back to." He knew that it was a sad excuse, but it was true. He'd thought about returning, before, when his freedom was just a promise on the horizon. She was silent again for such a time that he nearly released her hand, was working up the intestinal fortitude to do just that when she answered him.

"Of course there was," she said, the words barely made real, as if she had to work to breathe them out. "Of course there was, you beautiful idiot." Her voice broke on the last word, and he pulled her toward him, tucking her beneath his shoulder and letting her cry there. It felt odd, having a woman cry on him that wasn't drunk or Vanora-because the woman was angry enough at Bors a time or two in her younger years to seak out an understanding shoulder-but he hadn't felt as much at home in years.

**-RP: Wolf Moon-**

Lancelot had escaped the surgeon and his sister, and while he was a knight of the highest caliber, it had taken all of his skill and far longer than he'd have liked. He was free though, free to make a terrible choice, to start a war or a funeral. He supposed that he had participated in enough of both over the years that he had the right to start one at least once.

The heavy wooden door in front of him wasn't unfamiliar. In fact, he'd stood in front of it either waiting or being waited on so many times over the past fifteen years that it was almost a comforting sign. He'd reached out to knock twice, but the fear of what lay beyond froze him. It was on the third failed attempt that the door opened. There, on the other side, two pairs of dark brown eyes stared at him, one in annoyance and the other amusement.

"Nearly a season, you leave us waiting," Guinevere said, her eyebrows dawn together in craigy lines. Her mouth was downturned and pouting, and as he looked at it, he wanted nothing more than to kiss that pout away.

"Kati and Alda wanted to see the fort. I hadn't intended to return until the spring." The confused looks that met him were enough to quell any remnants of doubt in his mind.

"You hadn't-" Guinevere cut herself off with a sharp bite into her bottom lip. She was angry, but at least she was standing there. It wasn't the Queen of Briton that made him nervous to return. The women in his life had always come easily to his bed and stayed there with simple smiles and edged words. No, it was the King of Briton that worried him. It was Arthur he'd first fallen in love with, that much was certain. It was Arthur that had moved on from their easy push and pull, gotten a wife and set about starting his own family. It was Arthur's wife that caught Lancelot's eye far more than any bar wench ever had. Lancelot had tried to take a lot from Arthur, and yet, there the man stood, leaning against the door jam with that infuriating steadfast smile of his that only seemed to come out when he was truly and completely happy.

"I told you that this would end badly," he said, stepping forward more boldly than he had before. In the twice prior that he had kissed Arthur, it had been the commander that initiated. It was easy to take something else and expect what you had to remain. It was far more difficult to share what you had with another, and hope that it stayed.

Kissing Guinevere was easy, familiar even, in that way that all women seemed to kiss. What wasn't familiar was the firm set of hands that enveloped his hips as she pulled him deeper into their quarters. Neither were the weather roughened lips that found his shoulder.

He supposed, as the door drifted shut behind them, that he could stand a poor ending, if only for the story that would come before.


	26. Chapter 26

AN: Because it would have been cheap to not allow you at least some form of Tristram and Lykopis closure, there is a bit of a scene at the end here that I'm uncomfortable with, have rewritten thirty odd times but find that it is as good and as close to character as I am going to get it. You're also getting a "Bonus chapter" that doesn't really serve as an epilogue and doesn't really mean much but might be cuteness for some of you, posted congruently with this one. Let me know what you thought of the last chapter and your bonus piece.

Chapter Twenty-Six: The End of Things

Arthur was a happy man. There were few things he lacked in life that he could list, and as he lay in bed—one arm wrapped around the soft middle of his wife, drawing her to his chest and the other beneath her, numb and tingling but entwined firmly with thick, strong fingers and resting against a pale, muscled chest—he could not bring himself to recall any of them.

He sighed out a breath, watching as it ruffled a dark brown curl of hair in front of him. The morning sun was coming through their window—their window!—and Arthur relished in the way it fell across Lancelot's bare back and shoulders. He was always a darker man, with his hair and his eyes, with skin that would tan a glorious shade if he would lose his shirt for long enough. Now, with the sunlight shining across his skin, he glowed around the edges and was a dark smudge of sleepy ease at the center.

"You're staring." Those perfect lips barely moved as he whispered the words, and only after Arthur was silent for a few minutes longer did one dark eye crack open to stare at him, still fogged with sleep.

"I have never been allowed before," Arthur said simply, trying to tell his numb fingers to squeeze the hand in his. They must have obeyed, because Lancelot returned the pressure before bringing that hand up and laying a kiss against his knuckles that Arthur saw but could not feel.

"Who proclaimed you have the right now?" Lancelot asked, voice still thick with sleep. Arthur had heard that tone thousands of times in the early morning, when the First Knight was still half asleep, but now, in the light of their room, it was different. Half of him roiled with something deep in his stomach. The other half purred like a cat, sleepy and content to just lay there.

"You did. Demanded it, even, last night when you licked him from navel to-," Guinevere murmured, curling herself up tighter between them.

"You are a serpent in the grass," Lancelot said, cutting her off with a finger against her lips. Arthur watched that hand, because it was the one still entangled with his own, and as Lancelot silenced her with one digit, she kissed it lightly and dropped her chin to kiss the knuckle of Arthur's hand that was closest to her.

"A malicious thing without pity," she agreed, sitting herself up and drawing herself from Arthur's arms and untangling her legs from Lancelot's own. Naked, she crossed to her trunk before drawing a nightgown over her shoulders and disappearing out the door. It was only just as the door closed that she stuck her head back in and smiled at them. "Mayhap not without pity, as I'm leaving the pair of you here while I bathe. Make the most of your time because we have council at midday."

Arthur groaned, laying himself back against the bed and feeling the sharp stinging as blood flow started to return to his arm. Blood that was traitorously also flooding elsewhere. He hissed as Lancelot ran his fingers slowly up and down the inside of his arm. It was painful, even the light touch, but it also set him on edge.

"We will have to figure something out so our King is not so pained every night," Lancelot said, rubbing life back into the limb almost on instinct.

"It is a pain that he welcomes," Arthur said, rolling his head on his neck so that he could look at his First Knight, who was focused completely on massaging his forearm. They lay in silence as those skilled fingers worked up over his bicep, across his shoulder and the right side of his chest, downward, across his abdomen until Arthur caught them with his own.

"Council soon," he said, staring at the mischievous expression on his First Knight's face. "Don't start something we don't have time to finish."

"You've already started," Lancelot said, bold now that he was awake. Arthur would acknowledge later, as they were glared at almost affectionately by Guinevere as they stumbled into the Great Hall late, that Lancelot was right. At that moment though, with the weight of his oldest friend and newest lover against his hips, he protested tokenly and cursed his name as much as he praised it.

**-RP: Wolf Moon-**

"Romans," Arthur said darkly, staring out at the familiar tree line. He'd left their discussion early despite arriving late, if only because he could take no more of the arguing back and forth. Dead woads. Dead peasants. Dead Romans, soon enough, if Arthur had anything to say about it.

He could just make out the form of a woman standing at the tree line, ghosting through the underbrush, trailing something that was moving aheads of her. They'd ridden out not long ago, and the fact that they'd picked up on the group of men Merlin had described to them so quickly wasn't encouraging. A needle was only hard to find in a haystack when there was one. Add enough needles, and soon you'd find more than hay.

"That is Lark," Tristram said from beside him.

"You're collecting women, Arthur," Lancelot said, squinting to try to make out the form of the woman Tristram's eyes so easily caught. Amongst his knights, he felt at peace, even out in the world, away from his wall, where anything could happen. "She's going to get herself killed."

"Not likely," Dagonet said, lips downturned into a frown. "The woman is a menace." As if summoned, she appeared back through the trees, moving quickly, silently. Even at a distance, Arthur could tell the difference between her normal, controlled movements and these. She broke from the wood springing.

"Ride!" Arthur shouted, and the knights were moving before he'd really given the command. Tristram's bow fell a man as he cleared the trees, another half a breath later, but as they drew near enough to meet the woman, she reached out one arm, snagged the reigns on Galahad's horse, and leapt, propelling herself up into the saddle.

"Go!" she shouted, urging the animal around. Confused, it danced up on its hind legs, coming down hard twice before calming. Arthur was too frozen, watching the men come through the trees to give any command.

At least thirty, and all clearly of Roman stock, even if their clothes were woad. Horsemen flanked them quickly, and before anyone said anything, Lark was from the saddle again, pacing back and forth, keen eyes watching, a long dagger from her boot and that feral nature to her that Arthur recalled from the arena.

"Idiot King," she hissed at him as they were flanked. Weapons were drawn silently. Bors slipped from the saddle with the grace of a bull.

"C'mon girl, stay'ere," he said, taking a few steps forward, putting himself between her and the soldiers that came toward them, some laughing and others grim faced.

"Idiot knight," she said then. "Romans made me. Romans will kill me."

Arthur did not know what broke the calm, only that in the next moment, Bors was slashing with his daggers. Tristram's bow had sang three more times in the course of three seconds, and he was off his horse, long blade sliding like a snake from man to man.

Dagonet's war hammer spun in a wide, arcing circle, taking out two men at once while Lancelot's blades found purchase in flesh. Gawain and Galahad fought back to back as they always had, always would, and Arthur...

Arthur was on the ground, staring up at the sky, something hot searing his shoulder and making it hard to focus. His horse was beside him, hopping angrily up onto its hind legs and smashing the ground again, squealing in pain.

It took longer than it should to recognize the arrow in his shoulder, to rise and draw his sword. Too long, because in the next moment, he was on the defensive, parrying sloppily and being forced backward, away from his men and toward the seven or eight riders behind them.

"Arthur!" Lancelot shouted. It was not uncommon to hear the First Knight shout his name on the field. What was nearly gruesomely wrong was the tone of it, the panic and despair. He was knocked to ground, and in the next moment, a spear would be through him. He wasn't close enough for their swords to be a concern, but the closest could dismount and be upon him before he moved.

A whirring noise cut the air, and he shut his eyes against the world, in a split second trying to conjure the scene from that morning. The ache in the very same arm. The cold chill of it. The beauty of sunlight washing across his lovers.

Blood spattered against his face, startling him from the scene. The man in front of him fell to his knees, throat split wide by a dagger, dead before he hit the ground.

"Up!" Lark shouted at him, placing him behind her, at her back, far too easily. He went like a child, and later, when he thought about the field, he would blame it on the blood lost from his shoulder. The surgeons would tell him that it was close, too much and that he should rest. The poison from the arrow wouldn't have worked into his blood stream yet, but he'd blame that as well.

Three more fell by that little dagger, that little twist of wickedness that should not have brought about such death, even in the hands of one of his knights. His mind told him that the woman was not a knight.

_Lark is a blood creature. Germanus's words that day had never rang more true. Four men dead since Arthur had fallen, another on his way to greet the otherworld as she came forward, spooking the war horse up and slicing his belly as he came back down. _

_Blood speckled her from head to foot, and as she turned toward another, toward the last three riders, it exploded from her back. The spear Arthur had been waiting for, the one that he had known was for him, to end him, erupted from her back, high and to the right of midline. It would be a death blow._

In that moment, on the field of battle, Artorius Castus was just Arthur, a little boy who would stand and watch as another woman died.

The spearman slipped from his horse, walking toward the woman as she stood, uneasy on her feet and swaying. He stepped too close, and in an explosion of movement, his throat was ripped from his neck. Both he and Lark fell to the ground as one. Two bodies fell from their horses nearly simultaneously, one with an axe in its skull, the other an arrow.

Arthur did not know what kept the last two from ending his life, but later, Dagonet would tell him in that quiet way he had that he'd been a lucky man.

**-RP: Wolf Moon-**

Lancelot had never seen a woman fight like the woman they called Lark. He'd never seen one slink like she did, moving in all directions at once, distraction and brash bluffing. In his mind, the battle field was not a place for such a creature.

He'd never known a creature like Lark, and he would never. Gawain's axe ended the life of one of the riders, one of Tristram's arrows another. The woman fell to her knees, the dead man in front of her, the spear through her chest that would end her life.

"Rus!" A great, crackling war cry rent the air as she ripped the spear from her chest. He'd heard blood in lungs before, heard the way it made the voice pop and crackle like as if from beneath water. He'd never seen someone with the strength to remain on their knees like that, a weapon in hand, guarding something with nearly blind eyes.

It was Lancelot that killed the other two men. One of his blades was buried in each of their chests, and by the time he turned around, Arthur had fallen to his back, staring up sightlessly at the sky. The woman knelt in front of him, swaying back and forth, eyes shut, and Lancelot nearly met his end when he tried to get passed her, toward Arthur.

"Easy!" he shouted, pressing a hand to his stomach. Just a graze, and the blood was only just leaking from the skin. She seemed to recognize the threat was gone, and sagged, letting the spear drop so the tip dug into the ground, bracing her upward.

She would not be long for the world, but she was not what frightened him. A mere arrow should not have felled their commander. The man was stronger than that, stronger than all of them, and yet, he lay there, a bolt through his shoulder, unconscious. Blissfully unconscious, as Lancelot's fingers found a strong, bounding pulse.

The others had finished their fighting, but Lancelot could not see them as he pressed a bandage against the wound, ripped the bolt from flesh, and called for help pulling the man into the saddle. When he spurred the great warhorse toward the Wall, the woman was still there, swaying on her knees.

**-RP: Wolf Moon-**

Dagonet helped Lancelot easy Arthur across his lap in the saddle and watched for several long moments as Gawain and Galahad rode out behind him.

"Girl?" Bors called, drawing Dagonet back to the battle field.

Bors was crouched in front of her, one of his big hands taking the spear she still held loosely. Dag stood beside them, eyeing the wound with a grim realization. This would kill her. This would be the end of things for Lark of the Arena.

"Was'it, girl?" Bors asked, leaning close to her, as if trying to hear something.

"Zarana," she said louder, exhaling sharply as if it was the last word she could force past her lips, the last one she wanted to. Wide, death blurred eyes flickered to Dagonet, caught him and froze him in place, demanding he listen. "Tell Arthur, my name was Zarana."

Dagonet nodded once, and the pained look on the woman's face disappeared to be replaced by the calm of one that has gone to the darkness of the otherworld and embraced it. Dagonet watched as Bors reached out, eased the girl to her side in the grass, and closed her eyes.

-RP: Wolf Moon-

Lykopis watched as Lancelot fretted over his commander. The surgeon had come and gone and while the bolt had been dipped in some manner of Roman poison, the surgeon was sure that it would not claim his life. She watched him for several more minutes before pushing herself from against the wall and leaving. The knights were all there, scattered around the infirmary, watching the man sleep.

She had only been in the hall a few minutes, stalking through the darkness from pool of torch light to pool of moon light. If she hadn't gotten so used to his presence, she couldn't have known he'd followed her until she was out leaning against a parapet in the darkness, watching the windswept grasses sway in the moonlight, reminding her of the fields of ghost grass from her fever dreams.

"I am not there for one battle, and you lose your newest knight," Lykopis said, glaring out at the forest.

"She refused Arthur's request of sitting at the round table," Tristram said, his voice closer than she'd have thought it would have been. Just behind her, she realized, only half a pace.

"One battle, and you lose an ally," she amended darkly.

"One that begged death and found herself in it, at the end," he said, not dismissing the loss but honoring the intention. A hand gripped her elbow, and Lykopis glared down at long, graceful fingers for a moment before starting to pull away. As if on reflex, those fingers tightened down, pulled her about, and it was her own muscle memory that brought her free hand, the one with the claws, up and pressed them against his throat.

The moonlight caught dark eyes, nearly making them dance with mirth.

"The hawk does not fear the wolf," he said, looking down the length of his nose. His head was forced backward, but he could have easily taken a step away, released her and been out of striking distance. "But the wolf seems afraid of the hawk."

"The wolf fears nothing," she said, old words a habit. Sighing, she dropped her hand to her side, letting him lower his head. "Do not do that again." The words were simple, a command and a request all in one, vague and yet both of them knew what it meant.

"I've watched you come closer to death than you've ever watched me," he said darkly, pressing too close, making her take a step backward. She would retreat no further though. It was poor form to have your back to a wall, and any further and she would be trapped. She let his hand come out and brush against the still healing wound at her side and another on her claw arm, the one that had been flayed wide. The wound was little more than an ugly memory.

"Lark is the reason I am still alive," Lykopis said uneasily after a moment. They were both staring at the wound, a wound that was only closed by the knowledge of the gladiatorix.

"And you are the reason we are all still alive," Tristram said. When she did not respond and refused to meet his eyes, he bumped her hip lightly with his. "Eh, if you fear me, leave." She stared at him a moment, as if it she had heard him wrong. The firmness on his face gave way to mischief, the almost youth-like quirking of lips. Something a lot like anger flooded her at that, made her roil and rise to the challenge.

"I am not-" She did not get to finish the words; or rather, they were swallowed by his mouth in the next moment.

It would take her many weeks to stop running after he did that, many times of feeling that rush of almost-anger before she realized what it was, before she, for the first time in her life, stopped running. It would take many more before she admitted it. Before she stopped wearing the hood and let her claws slip completely from her hand to lay in the grass or against a table when she was around him.

It would take many more before Galahad realized what was going on under his own nose, and it would take nearly two full years before Lykopis could look her mother in the eye after the first time she'd caught them in the forest together. It would take hours of howling into a storm to push from her the beautiful thing that would soften her mother, bring her father's smiles and most importantly, bind the pair of them together for the rest of their lives.

As she lay, sweating and panting and so very close to something she did not want to call death in a birthing hut, Tristram sitting beside her, holding their son as if he were made up of air and would slip through his fingers, Lykopis drew Tristram's blade from his boot, drug it across her hand, and pressed the bloodied thing to her son's forehead.

"It binds a promise," she said, voice weak and whispered, before collapsing back to the straw mattress. Blood had brought her a long way, from a wayward child that did not understand it across oceans of grasses and seas of memories. It was fitting, she decided days later, as she stared at the sleeping scout and their son between them, that a blood oath start her journey and another end it.


	27. Chapter 27

**AN: **I couldn't write the last chapter of Wolf Moon, so I decided to put some thought into the epilogue. This was written pre-final chapter and will be posted congruently.

**Epilogue: Bonus Scenes**

**Kati and Dagonet:**

Dagonet stared down at the slip of a woman in front of him. She'd rucked her sleeves up and tied them to keep them out of the soap bubbles of the washing basin, but the ends were damp none-the-less. It was the least of her concerns though, as she sat on the ground outside the tavern, legs drawn up knee to chest and eyes staring sightlessly out at the compound.

"Kati," he said softly, drawing her attention. "Is everything alright?"

He'd known the girl since she'd arrived at the outpost with Lancelot three years before. It had been an eventful three years with driving out the last of the Roman spies and assuring that the island was well protected. In the last year, there had been a time of peace, and Dagonet's bones were never more grateful. In that time, the girl had been a constant source of light in all of their lives. She was a simple thing with a sharp tongue and a quick wit. Oftentimes, she was there in the tavern as they tried to drown sorrows, and more often than not, it was her sweet smiles that Dagonet turned to instead of mead.

"Of course," she said lightly. It was scripted, rehearsed, and i t was the most painful thing he'd ever heard. He eased down beside her, stretching his long legs out and bumping her shoulder with his own. It was a gentle gesture that brought the shadow of a smile to her lips.

"Tell me," he said. They sat in silence for several long minutes before she drew in a deep breath.

"I am getting old," she said. For a moment, Dagonet wondered if she was simply commenting. Surely age wasn't a thing to mourn, and yet, as she sat there, staring sullenly out into nothingness, he could see that mourn it she did.

"The alternative would sadden me," he said, trying to make her smile. Lancelot would be better at this. The First Knight always seemed to be able to brighten her moods. It was a shame that the man was so smitten with his lovers. The pair would have made a good match. The little discomforting feeling in his chest flared as it always did when he saw Kati giving her smiles to Lancelot or Gawain or really any other man in the fort. He wasn't a dull creature, but he was a quiet man. He was aware that people feared him, that he was large and that the scar that folded his face was frightening upon first sight. He had always assumed that some day he would die in battle. He hadn't planned for old age.

Lonely old age.

That froze him a moment. Loneliness was something that he hadn't considered that Kati would know. She was surrounding by Vanora's girls as often than not, and Lancelot's sister hardly left her alone for more than an hour without the chittering laughter the pair always seemed to be surrounded by.

"It wouldn't me," she said at last, and he nearly missed it. He had nothing to say to that, so he simply sat there, stunned silent. "Men are all the same," she said suddenly, voice thick and cross, laden with the possibility of unshed tears. "You take something that doesn't belong to you, and once it is tarnished because of it, you throw it away. All things have to shine to catch your attention. A sword. A shield. Pretty tools that have purpose and value beyond the gold that they carry."

"I don't-"

"Leave me alone, Dagonet." She rose to her feet then, undoing the ties that kept her sleeves in place and letting them fall to cover her arms.

"Do you think that wise?" he asked.

"I've never done anything because it was wise. Why should I start now?" She was angry, and she edged her words more sharply than a dagger. "I followed a pair of siblings across a continent and a sea thinking that it would change anything." She left him there at that, her quick footsteps leading her away from him. It wasn't until several minutes later that he rose to follow. He found her sitting in the stable, as she was likely to do to calm herself. Lancelot's mare enjoyed snuffing at her hair and nosing at the delicate flesh at her neck. She was talking to the creature, voice soft but laced with something that made it thick and crackled.

"I am a silly little girl," she said as the mare snuffed at an offering in her hand. Her other came up and ran between the creature's ears and over it's brow. Dagonet leaned against the stable door behind her, careful of his size against the wood. She'd not heard him enter, and he'd keep it that way as long as she was talking to the beast. "I had a child. I had a beautiful little child with eyes like the sky at dusk. No matter how he came to be, I loved that boy with all of me, and it is an ugly jealousy that makes me want another when I couldn't care for the one I was given." He'd heard some of the older women at the fort speak of such things. Children taken before their time were always a ghost to their mothers. He hadn't known that Kati had lost such a son, and looking at her, he'd hardly think her old enough to have done.

She fell silent for several long minutes, just rubbing at the animal's nose.

"Come now," she said to the creature after a great sniffling sigh. "Tell me that I'm being foolish and that I should be pleased with what I had. At least I didn't have to worry over finding the father wanting to name him or the Romans coming for him. I did well, for the time I had him, and no one can tell me otherwise." She'd steeled herself again, but the words unsettled Dagonet.

"A father names his sons," he said softly, and she nearly fell from the stable door she'd perched herself upon. "Why would your son be any different?"

"Raiders never stayed long enough to name any sons they left behind," she said after she collected herself again. The statement was simple and firm, as if she had told herself that time and time again. It was so plainly said that it took several long moments to burn in the pit of his stomach. "Don't you dare!" she hissed at him, sliding off of the door and stalking toward him, one hand held out in front of her accusing him with one pointed finger. "Don't you dare look at me like that."

Her ire quieted his own, and he stared at her, wide eyed.

"Like what?"

"Like I am something disgusting beneath your horse's hoof," she said, turning away from him and pacing angrily. "I am much too proud for that, and you have no crown upon your head to judge me under."

It was when she turned back to him, puffed up with anger and face lined with rage that it happened. She'd taken a step closer than she'd been before, her hand coming out to poke him sharply in the sternum. One moment, she was in front of him, her anger pressing him backward into the wall, and the next she was beneath him, pressed firmly between his chest and the stall door that had been beside them a moment prior.

She was a slight creature, but he was a careful man, more careful perhaps, than any of the rest of the knights. He guarded his strength carefully, and as in all things, used it judiciously. The little press of hands against his chest was weighed and measured, and once it reached more than a pressure and was actually a push, he fell away from her. Lips burning and a tight coil of shame starting low in his stomach, he stared at the woman.

Lancelot would murder him, surely. She looked shocked, the anger having been stolen from her lips by his own, and inside of him, it was turned once again upon himself. A foolish thing, really, but he had never claimed to be wise.

"Apologies," he said after he found his voice. "I do not know what came over me." She did not respond, and with the same flaring through his chest, he turned away and was nearly to the door before she stopped him.

"Dagonet?" she called, voice quiet. She still did not look at him, but as she took a steadying breath, her eyes snapped up to him. "Whatever it was, if you find it bests you again, I will be right here." There was a smile on her face, one genuine and happy, laced with the slight mischief that she had picked up from Lancelot. He watched her for a moment, trying to gauge her face. She was never an overly serious thing, but he did not think she would joke to him about this.

She did not, as it turned out an hour later. The sun was hot above their heads, but the press of palm to palm as they left the stable burned far more than the heat of day ever could.

**The Wolf Pup:**

A little slip of a boy teetered uneasily on his hind legs, reaching with grasping fingers upward. He'd managed to push himself up enough to catch glimpse of the soft wolf hood that he often found himself wrapped in at night when the storms scared him. Little hands reached, trying to catch the corner of the fur that was thrown over the back of a tall backed chair.

"Eh, pup." He was snatched up from the ground, his quest thwarted by a pair of large, familiar hands. Propped against his father's hip, he made little complaining noises in the back of his throat. "Too big for you, pup," his father said. The child understood little more than 'pup' which usually meant that his father was speaking to him.

Tristram eased the child from his hip upward, supporting him with hands at his sides. He stared into familiar eyes for a moment before smiling and bringing his son back to his chest. He could deny those eyes nothing, and with one hand, draped the wolf hood over his son's body. It was a comfort to him, and it wouldn't do to see the wolf come back to find their pup crying. She'd already left their bed angry that morning. He smiled at the memory. More often than not, she left their bed annoyed at something he'd said or done, but she always came back. It was a dance they had done for years, far longer than either knew really, and it was one that he was happy to continue until they were old and grey as long as it meant that she came back. And come back she would, at least only to shout at him. He smiled as their son sleepily closed his eyes. If only to blame him for the way her mood was again fluxuating and the small rise in her low abdomen.

He laid his son down in his crib, closing the door lightly behind him. The boy was as even tempered as his mother, which said little, but the boy would sleep through the night now. By the time he returned to the front hall of the barracks, she was there, leaning against one of the pillars and glaring at him in a way that promised both pain and pleasure. It was starting to be something he was nearly fond of, her ire.

"You are a lucky man," she said as he drew near. He leaned against the other side of the pillar, facing the wall. It would not do to corner her, as it never had. A wolf would bite when cornered, even if it didn't mean it.

"Eh, this is known," he said. And a lucky man he was. He had his wife. He had his son. He had his brothers, and he had a country. It was hard to want for much else. "The Merlin gave you news that pleased you."

"Yes," she said, and he could almost feel her moving behind him. In a moment, she was in front of him, staring up at him clearly, eyes searching his face as if she would find some great secret there. He supposed she'd always done that, with that hood of hers to hide behind. Anymore, she hadn't felt the need to wear it, and while he still felt the race of a thrill in the pit of his stomach to see her pull that hood up over her head and tighten her claws against her knuckles before meeting an enemy in battle, it did more for him that she was free of the weight of it.

"Speak, wolf," he said, nudging her with his knee.

"A man wants a brood of children, if only to prove that he is a man," she said, those eyes flickering away from him in the way that she had of doing when she wasn't sure of how he was going to react to something. "But I have raised a fort full of knights, and I have worried for their safety for years." He sighed and shook his head.

"This man," he said, drawing her closer by the front of her tunic. "This man does not care for a hoard of children, nor does he need them to prove he is a man. But he does enjoy making them with the wolf that curls up with him at night."

"The wolf doesn't complain about the making of them, but the birthing of the last nearly killed her yet you try to put more in her belly."

"Go speak with Vanora," he said at that. She was right, he supposed. Their son had nearly been the death of her, and in the storm that had raged outside, she had screamed until the child was free of her, his own howl sending Tristram through the doors of the infirmary despite Gawain and Bors trying to keep him out. With the birthing of Bors' fifteenth, Vanora had gone to the apothecary and drank tea that smelled strong and pungent each morning for a month. That had been enough, and no more children had grown in her.

"Vanora can have no more children," Lykopis countered, staring at him with disbelief. "You would regret it-"

"I would regret nothing more than having to raise a wolf pup without it's mother," he said simply. The conversation died, and that night, Tristram listened to her sleep until the sun came up. With it, he slipped from the bed. Breakfast in the tavern was underway by the time he found her again, their son sitting on her lap, playing at his food. He set the stone mug he carried down in front of her before settling on the bench and taking their son.

"You're serious," she said, picking up the water warmed mug and sniffing it.

"Eh, drink it, wolf. You'll hear nothing from me but pleasure at your health." He freed a piece of his hair from his son's grasp. He supposed, as she took the first drink, nose crinkled up in distaste, that it was as much for her health as it was for his.


	28. Big Fat Author's Note

So...

First, I apologize for this non-chapter. I'm hoping that the news that follows is enough to assuage your righteous wrath.

I have been...tinkering with a sort-of sequel to this. I say sort of because it is Lark's story, up to the events of WM and past them, mainly because she won't let me write anything because she keeps saying she wasn't supposed to die, damn it.

So, with that being said, keep an eye out for If a Lark Could Sing, if you're interested in more of this universe...sort of. Lykopis and Izi and everything that happened there will still happen, so it's still the same Au but...yeah.


End file.
